


Children At War

by XCVG



Series: A Spectre In Westeros [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Crash Landing, Crossover, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Lyanna Stark is the Knight of the Laughing Tree, POV Lyanna Stark, Robert's Rebellion, Strong Female Characters, Teenage Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21657844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XCVG/pseuds/XCVG
Summary: It's been months since Commander Jane Shepard crash-landed outside of Winterfell. With the help of a local lord, she's kept a low profile. But that's about to change.It started with trying help a local girl back out of an engagement she never wanted. She has no idea how it's going to end, but she can tell war is coming, and somehow she's ended up at the centre of it.
Relationships: Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Series: A Spectre In Westeros [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1440490
Comments: 55
Kudos: 93





	1. The Only Hope For Me Is You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read A Spectre In Winterfell, go read that first! Seriously, there are many cases when you can start with the sequel, but this isn't one of them. This story is going to make no sense if you haven't at least skimmed that one.
> 
> So this is the promised second part of the series. The intent is to cover the equivalent time period of Robert’s Rebellion (I’m being deliberately vague here), though I might split it up if it gets too long. It’s still going to be fairly loosely written but I’m going to try for something more coherent than the first entry.
> 
> The title has a lot of meanings, although some of them are probably too much of a stretch. I came up with it in the middle of the night. I’m not great with titles. I might change it.
> 
> I realize I botched the year in the previous story. I want to blame it on mixing book and show canon, but the year I gave makes no sense for either. It should have been 279-280 AL (show canon) or 280-281 AC (book canon). By the time you read this, it will have been changed from 282 to 280.
> 
> Chapter-specific notes are at the bottom this time.
> 
> Finally, the rating will likely change to mature, depending on where exactly I take this fic.

Lyanna Stark lay on her stomach, rifle firmly against her shoulder with her cheek against its stock. Peering through the scope with one eye, she lined up the crosshairs with her target. She breathed in, steadied her arms, and pulled back smoothly with her index finger.

The trigger broke sharply and the gun kicked back into her shoulder, its loud report muffled by the plugs in her ears. A sliver of metal flew downrange at breakneck speed, its impact on target seeming to be immediate.

“Good hit,” congratulated the red-haired woman lying next to her. She put down her spotting scope- really a far-eye by another name- and smirked. “That pumpkin is very dead.”

The girl wasted no time in dispatching the other gourds, her companion calling out each hit and miss. The sophisticated, alien weapon in her hands made quick work of them, its tiny projectiles obliterating the vegetables with each hit.

When the last was gone, she palmed a lever on the side of the rifle, ejecting a red-hot chunk of metal onto the cold ground, where it sat and steamed. She safed the weapon, first by flipping the selector to safe and then cutting power by removing the battery.

“Six shots, five hits, one miss. Average distance five hundred and forty seven metres,” Jane Shepard called out, standing up and brushing herself off with gloved hands. She tucked the scope away into one of the many pockets in her jacket. “That beats your previous best. I think you’re Planetos’s top shooter.”

“I think I’m this world’s _only_ shooter,” she quipped, though the compliment made her smile again. With some reluctance, she handed the weapon back. “Wait, why did you call those rotten gourds pumpkins?”

“Not the rotten ones, only the orange ones,” Jane corrected, taking the rifle and slinging it over her shoulder. “They remind me of a kind native to Earth. Before they became endangered, they were a big thing in certain parts of the world. There was this holiday, and people would carve all sorts of fancy designs into them.”

Lyanna picked up the still-cooling chunk of metal and tossed it into a padded bag, doing it quickly before it could burn through the leather of her gloves. She gave the field one last glance before turning to head back to their horses. “Did you ever carve a pumpkin?”

“No, that was way before my time. I lived in a lot of places, but I don’t think any of them ever had pumpkins anyway,” she answered with a shake of her head. Jane’s mother, Hannah, was military, which meant they moved around a lot from colony to colony and ship to ship. She hadn’t even spent an appreciable length of time on Earth until she was already an adult.

Lyanna still didn’t quite understand how any of that worked. The woman had patiently tried to explain how the Systems Alliance and its military worked, but it just seemed so outlandish. She swore up and down it worked, though, and some of it sounded a lot better than Westeros.

They’d left the horses a fair distance back, but close enough that they could reach them quickly if they had to. They brought no guards with them. Early on, her lord father had insisted, but after a fortnight and a conversation she was not privy to, they no longer accompanied them. She had asked what the woman had said, and she just smirked and said something about “telling Rick what I do for a living.”

Strange response or no, somehow Jane had made her lord father trust her enough to ride alone with his daughter.

“Ah, there they are,” Jane called as the horses came into view. “There’s my, um… charger?”

“Courser,” she corrected, gracefully mounting her horse as her companion awkwardly did the same.

While Lyanna had picked up marksmanship fairly quickly (“Think of it as a crossbow, except instead of using tension it uses electromagnets,” Jane had once said), the woman from space still struggled with riding. She did most things with an eerie smoothness and intensity, and her continued awkward struggles with horses were comical by contrast.

Jane- just Jane, she had insisted, not Lady Jane or Lady Shepard- was _strange_. She was polite and diplomatic, but could and would hold her ground. She could either dominate the room or disappear into the shadows, seemingly by her own choosing. She spoke so casually about subjects nobody else could understand, and spoke with unflinching confidence even when she was telling people she wasn’t sure.

Yet she had somehow endeared herself to most of the castle, and Lyanna especially. She had a wit to her that was strange and offputting at first, but quickly became fascinating. Lyanna just liked how she didn’t act like a proper noble lady and didn’t seem to care one bit. There was a quiet confidence to her.

She was also the only person Lyanna could talk to. Most of the castle saw her as Lyanna _Stark_ , Rickard’s daughter, to be feared and respected and nothing more. She certainly couldn’t talk to her father, and Brandon was too impatient. Ned and Benjen would try to listen, but they could only understand so much. They weren’t forced to dress in clumsy skirts and smile and dance and they weren’t betrothed to the brute that was Robert Baratheon.

“You might have to talk to your dad,” Jane said, breaking her out of her reverie. The woman brought her horse alongside hers, still awkwardly but less and less each day. “We’ve been over your laws a dozen times. Ultimately, it’s his say.”

“Isn’t there something you could do?”

“If my people come, I could probably force them to intervene. The Alliance constitution definitely outlaws forced marriages. We’re not technically in Alliance space, and this isn’t technically an Alliance colony, but there are few ambiguities in the wording I could probably exploit,” Jane mused. “Or, provided they haven’t stripped my status, I could just pull Spectre authority. That would definitely get said status stripped, though.”

“If they come,” Lyanna echoed.

“Yeah,” Jane agreed, in her typical nonchalant way. “It’s been months already. I’m not counting them out yet, but it could be even _more_ months.”

Not so long ago, those words would have meant nothing coherent. Now, she understood them, and was disappointed. “Oh.”

“Even if they did, the only way I can think of is to take you with me when we leave. You’d be giving up everything and everyone you know.” The woman shrugged. “So, that won’t work unless you’re okay with never seeing anyone again.”

“I could run away. Here. Maybe to Essos,” she suggested. It wasn’t the first time she’d suggested it.

“Yeah, you could.” The agreement was the same as last time, along with what followed. “For how long, though? And what kind of life would it be? Can’t say I wouldn’t be tempted myself, though.”

“Father will never agree to break the betrothal. It would be an embarrassment to our house,” Lyanna said ruefully. She added urgently, “We’re running out of time. You know that, right?”

“Yes. But we have one last shot,” Jane stated. Noticing they were drifting apart, she jerked her horse back into line. “Harrenhal.”

“The tourney?”

“We’ve ruled out convincing your dad that is a bad idea. I still think there’s a chance there, but you’ve known him a lot longer than I have. But what about Lord Baratheon?”

“You think Robert can be convinced to break the betrothal?” she asked, curiously and hopefully.

“I think it’s worth approaching this from the other direction. Convince Robert, or whoever actually calls the shots at Storm’s End, that they don’t want this,” Jane answered carefully. “I just don’t know how to approach it. There’s an art and a science to persuasion. We need to figure out which person or persons is actually in charge. Then we need to figure out what makes them tick, what they like and what pisses them off. And then roll the dice when it inevitably turns out to be wrong”

“It would be Robert, wouldn’t it? He’s Lord of Storm’s End, since his parents died.”

She shook her head. “Not necessarily. The authority is his, yes. But he might just do whatever one of his advisors says, or at least listen to them well enough that they hold sway over his decisions. On the other hand, maybe Robert is an egotistic prick who doesn’t listen to anybody. My money’s on the latter, but I could be wrong.”

They paused their conversation as they approached Winterfell, passing through its sturdy gatehouse under the watchful eyes of the guardsmen. Jane gestured oddly at them, bringing her flattened palm to her forehead and snapping it upwards and outwards toward them. They passed Jane’s wrecked shuttle- now safely deactivated and ensconced within the protection of the castle’s walls- on their way to the stables. As usual, they handed off the horses to a stable boy, Lyanna handing him a silver stag for his trouble.

“We just need to figure out how to convince him to call this off,” Jane repeated with an encouraging smile. “Easy as pie.”

Lyanna smiled back, though it was an uncertain smile. “Easy as pie.”

* * *

Jane Shepard’s room in Winterfell was a strange mix of luxurious and austere.

The furnishings and bedding were fancier and much more homely than the sterile environment of a naval ship cabin. Apparently this was considered simple compared to the excesses of the South, but she knew the well-fitted furniture and deep-dyed fabrics could not have come cheap, and were a far sight from what the peasants had to make do with.

The room was surprisingly warm, thanks a primitive geothermal hot-water heating system, but there was no control over that heating whatsoever. The lights were straight out of history- torches on the wall. Worse, there was no shower, only a tub for washing that would be filled by servants with buckets.

She’d fixed the lighting situation by sticking her own flash-forged, battery-powered lights to the walls. She’d also hung a field shower from the ceiling, though it still required someone to fill it and someone to empty the tub. A few times she’d just tossed the greywater out the window, though that tended to draw some very strange looks.

Occasionally, she’d indulged with a bath, but this morning, she’d stick with a shower. Wylla had already heated water and filled the bag. She had few coins to her name, and tossed the girl a chocolate bar for her trouble instead.

There were no Hollywood showers with a shower bag. She stripped, stepped in the tub, opened the valve, wet herself down, then shut it again. Then she sprayed on soap, let it lather, and only then turned the water back on to rinse off. It wasn’t all that satisfying, but it got her clean, and she was done in five minutes.

It still gave her a little bit of time to think.

If she were being honest with herself, she shouldn’t be concerning herself so much with problems of a local teenager. But… she felt for the girl. And even after all she had said and done, when someone put their hand out and asked for help, she couldn’t bring herself to say no. She told herself she had to wait _anyway_ , that first contact was botched _anyway_ , that if it weren’t her it would be someone else _anyway_ , but she knew those were after-the-fact rationalizations.

She stepped out of the tub, toweled off, and tossed the towel into a basket. There was no laundry chute; someone would come and collect it. There were no washing machines either; someone would scrub that towel against a board later.

Jumpsuits weren’t really all the rage in the North, but most of the clothes in the shuttle were the latest and greatest in colonist wear. She grabbed a fresh one from the pile. In muted colors and with a jacket over top, it would look reasonable enough. This time she picked a grey jacket of local manufacture- a gift from Lord Stark- and put it on over top, making sure her holstered pistol was covered. She snugged up her gloves, laced up her boots, double-checked her pistol, and she was ready to go.

Her timing was about right. She flipped her omni-tool on and glanced at it. Almost perfect, actually. The locals didn’t really have a single, definitive system for telling time. Punching in the length of the stellar day and agreeing on when “noon” was gave her something that she could work with.

She waited for Lord Stark to allow her into his solar. She always waited; she was saving the shock of barging in for when she _really_ needed it. Putting him at ease was better for a reasoned discussion. She’d put him on edge if she needed to force an issue, and she wasn’t there.

Yet. Hopefully.

“Lady Jane,” he greeted respectfully.

“Lord Stark,” she replied in the same tone.

They discussed various matters over the next half hour or so. The state of the North and of the Seven Kingdoms. The latest news from Riverrun and the Vale. The marriage between one distant cousin and another. The glass gardens and a few ideas she had to improve irrigation.

He asked if she had heard anything from her people yet. She answered in the negative, as she had for the past months. In truth it was beginning to worry her, but there was nothing she could do at this point.

They talked about the upcoming tourney, focusing on her plans. She would be coming along- she had insisted on it- but agreed keep a low profile. They hadn’t worked out how she would present herself yet. One option was a foreign noble. A noble visiting from Essos or Ulthos would invite questions, but she was visibly foreign and she didn’t think she could pass as a local. Lord Rickard was somewhat more optimistic, though.

Finally, after all that was done with, she brought up what she’d come here for. “Rickard, you know Lyanna’s still not happy about getting married.”

“I am aware.” He stood firm. “But I will not break the betrothal. It is a good match and I will not toss it aside over a girl’s whims. Please, understand there are greater considerations. House Stark needs to strengthen its relations with the southron houses, and to break the agreement now would be disastrous. She has a duty to the House.”

She resisted the urge to punch him in the face. Rickard was a good man at heart, and she did need his acceptance, but sometimes the culture clash drove her nuts. She clenched and unclenched her fist under the table. Like it or not, she needed at least some of the locals on her side. She’d managed to avoid a heated argument before, and now was not the time to have one.

Instead, she held her hands up in what was a less familiar gesture on Planetos, but one Rickard seemed to understand by now. “I know it’s complicated. I’m just calling it how I see it.”

“I should order you to stop this madness, but I know you would not listen.” He sighed. “You have an idea. What is it?”

The first few times they’d had a conversation like this, she’d opened with the part about how her culture was different and how she understood why this was important but _maybe it doesn’t have to be this way_. This time, she’d save _the speech_ for the end, when Rickard was invariably pissed off at her. “Speaking hypothetically, can the betrothal agreement be broken in a way that wouldn’t make a huge mess? Is there some scenario where Lyanna could not marry Robert and House Stark would not walk away disgraced?”

“It is possible,” he admitted. “But there are few options.”

“What if _Robert_ didn’t want it anymore?” she queried after a deliberate pause. “Hypothetically, I mean. Could House Baratheon break the betrothal from their end without anyone losing too much face?”

The lord tented his fingers, taking a moment to ponder it before answering. “Perhaps if Lord Robert was instead betrothed to another, of higher standing. It would have to be the daughter of a more prominent great house, of which there are very few. Or a Targaryen, but they have no daughter of an age. Even then, the Stormlands would have to offer something else to us in recompense. Generally, that would be another marriage. A daughter for Eddard or Benjen, but they have none.”

“What about a foreign noble?” Jane asked, curiously.

That seemed to confuse him, but he answered anyway. “It would be similar. They would have to be of higher standing. A high lord, or a prince of a powerful realm. And again, House Stark would have to be compensated.”

“Okay, let’s flip it around again,” she suggested, intent on covering every possibility. “It’s possible to back out and not look like a total asshole doing it. What would it take for you?”

His answer was diplomatic, but it was clear Rickard did not like the idea. “Lyanna would have to be betrothed to the son of a powerful house, and House Stark would have to benefit enough to offset the loss from breaking the agreement with House Baratheon. I do not know of any candidates, not least any that would accept it.”

“I could offer one of my siblings, as a legal fiction,” she offered. “Duke Reginald of Battenberg-Hesse? Mirala T’Vari, Princess of Armali?”

He shook his head, even less happy about that idea. “It would not do. There would be too many questions. Your strange origins aside, we would expect a wedding- and a bedding- sooner than later. And did you seriously suggest betrothing Lyanna to another woman?”

“Mirala technically isn’t a woman. But okay. I get what you’re saying.” She would drop it for the time being, but it still might be worthwhile as a last-ditch option.

“Lady Jane, I have considered many options. Lord Robert is the best for House Stark, and the best, given the circumstances, for Lyanna,” Rickard restated. “You are still unhappy about this.”

She pinched her nose in frustration. Now was the time for _the speech_. “Rick, I’m trying to be respectful of your culture here, and I’m trying to be understanding of the politics you’re dealing with. But what I see is an underage girl being _sold like property_ by her own father, for the political gain of a single family in a single nation-state on a single planet. That’s not unknown out in the galaxy, but it’s pretty much entirely counter to my own values.”

She left out the part about how in Citadel space, she’d have every right to haul his ass to jail for even thinking it, and that she probably would.

He opened his mouth to object, and she cut him off. “But I’m not naïve. I know Westeros is not Earth. It’s not the Citadel. It’s not Palaven. I know you have your reasons. I know they’re important to you. And I know I probably shouldn’t be telling you how to raise your kids. Hell, I am the _last_ person who should be telling _anyone_ how to raise their kids.

“So I’m not going to steal her away in the night, or try to sabotage the agreement, or openly undermine your authority. You’re Lord of Winterfell, and what you say goes. But I like Lyanna, and I care about what happens to her. I try to help where I can and she asked for that help. I’m just trying to find a better way for everyone to get what they want.”

He gave her a hard look. Better than yelling. “That is not always possible, Lady Jane.”

She stared right back. “Believe me, I know. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

* * *

Benjen Stark found his sister in the godswood. That had been something of a surprise; she’d spent less of her time here since Lady Jane had arrived. She sat on a rock, facing the heart tree. He was sure she had a forlorn expression on her face, though her back was to him so he could not see. She was still dressed in her mannish riding clothes, though she’d let her hair down to cascade freely down her back.

“I can feel the days counting down,” Lyanna said, turning to face him. “I feel like I’m walking to the gallows. I think that’s what Lady Jane called them.”

Somewhat uneasily, he brushed off the melodramatic words. Instead, he asked, “How did you know it was me?”

She cracked a thin smile, though there was pain and sadness in her eyes. “By your gait, mostly.”

He took a seat beside her on the rock. “What’s on your mind?”

“When she first arrived, I thought my prayers had been answered,” his sister said wistfully. “I thought-“

“Lady Jane? A gift sent by the gods?” He guffawed. “That’s absurd, Lya!”

“I know, it’s stupid. I realize that now. From the stars, perhaps, but only human,” Lyanna admitted, a tone of regret in her voice. “At the time… Here was a woman who dressed in armour and carried a sword. Who was strong and powerful, not delicate and pretty. And even on that first night, she treated my words with actual concern, and didn’t dismiss them as a stupid girl’s stupid dreams.”

Benjen couldn’t help but notice that his sister was picking up Lady Jane’s strange manner of speech, too. He soothed, “I am sure Robert is-”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Lyanna snapped. “I don’t want to marry Robert. That should be the end of it. We can talk about how it’s a great match for our houses and how it’ll strengthen our alliances, but at the end of the day, I’m the one who has to marry him. Not our father, not you, me.”

“You have a duty to the house. That’s how it works. That’s how it always worked,” he offered lamely. “It’s not just you. Brandon doesn’t have a choice, either. They fancy each other, but it could have just as easily not been that way.”

“Why, Benjen? Why, brother, does it have to be that way?” Lyanna lamented. “It isn’t like that on Earth. Or Palaven, or Thessia. Even on Sur’Kesh and on the Migrant Fleet, the people being married have the final say.”

But they didn’t live in any of those places, if they even existed. He didn’t say that, though. He knew better than to interrupt her flights of fancy. “I thought you and Lady Jane were finding a way to escape the betrothal?”

“We were. But only Father can break the betrothal agreement, and he won’t do it. It would be _disastrous to our house_ ,” she said, barely covering up misery with a mocking tone. “Lady Jane thinks we have one more chance, to meet with Robert and convince him to break the betrothal. But…”

“You don’t think it’ll work.”

She shook her head.

“We should talk to Ned,” he suggested, standing. “Nobody knows Robert better than our brother, save perhaps for Lord Arryn.”

* * *

It was with some trepidation that Ned Stark faced off against Lady Jane on the training field.

It was odd to fight a lady. The idea of a woman warrior wasn’t unknown to him- his sister was evidence enough of that, and one time he had been soundly beaten in a spar by Lady Maege. Yet at the same time he was concerned about hurting her by accident. The fact that she came from what was apparently a ruling house didn’t help matters.

But he was also concerned that Lady Jane would be a stronger opponent than he expected. His lord father had specifically warned him that while she was a friend to House Stark, she was dangerous. He had said chilling, intense words about how he could tell she had seen war, perhaps not war like they knew but war nonetheless. She was a warrior in the guise of a woman.

He wasn’t scared, exactly, but he didn’t want to underestimate her and lose, nor overestimate her and injure her.

The master-at-arms seemed to have some concerns of his own and had moved to object, but Lady Jane stopped him and they exchanged quiet words that he couldn’t hear. He seemed satisfied by whatever she said, and she went back to the training field with a thin smirk on her face.

“So, you get a lethal hit, I have to answer your question?” Ned asked, to confirm their rules. “All will be about Lord Arryn, Lord Robert, or my lord father.”

Lady Jane nodded. “That’s what we agreed on.”

“And when I do the same, you have to answer a question about your past.” That had been the only reason he agreed to this at all; the temptation was too much even for him to resist.

“That’s right.” The smirk was still there.

“Weapons?”

“I’ve got a rubber knife.” She unsheathed the “weapon”, tossed it in the air, and caught it by its soft “blade” before flipping it over again. “But you can use live steel if you want.”

“And if I hit you?”

Her response was more a statement than a boast. “You won’t.”

Nevertheless, he didn’t take the bait, choosing a wooden sword instead. He was tempted to take a blunted tourney sword, but Lady Jane wasn’t wearing armor or even padding, just her usual breeches and jacket.

She was either very good or very stupid, and she had never come across as the latter. An uneasy feeling settled in his gut.

It was odd. The last time he’d seen her ready for a fight, she’d been wearing full plate and carrying a sizeable sword. He would have expected her to fight as a knight did, then. Now she had only a knife and had foregone armor, which would suggest a fast, agile style like the Dornish or perhaps the Braavosi.

“Begin!”

He swung his sword straight into thin air, and a moment later felt something against his neck. Lady Jane was behind him, with her knife at his throat. Fast and agile, then. “You’re dead. How’d this whole “fostering at the Vale” thing come up?”

A simple question with a simple answer. “My lord father wished to strengthen ties with southern houses. He already knew Lord Arryn, who was amicable to the agreement.”

She nodded, and they went again. This time, he feinted left and struck right, but his opponent expertly spun away and toward him, placing her knife at his throat once again. “Dead. How did Robert Baratheon end up there?”

“House Baratheon also wished to strengthen ties with House Arryn,” he answered simply, leaving out the part about Robert’s temperament and how his father had hoped Lord Arryn could instill some propriety in him.

Lady Jane seemed to accept the answer, though he doubted it was the one she was hoping for. The next round went quickly. He swung and missed- his fault, he realized, his grip had slipped- and that gave her an easy opening to rush in, tap him once on the wrist and then on the neck. “Missing a hand. And dead. Who runs Storm’s End?”

“Robert Baratheon is Lord of Storm’s End,” Ned recited. “In his absence, his duties fall to Stannis, his brother.”

The woman gave him a wry glance. Not the answer she was looking for, apparently. They separated and took a moment to survey each other once again before attempting to strike. He circled, this time allowing her to strike first. He parried her knife easily, only to find she had hooked her leg around his ankle. With a flick, she sent him crashing to the ground, and before he could do anything her knife was once again at his throat.

“Dead.” She offered him a hand, which he reluctantly took. She was strong for a woman, pulling him to his feet easily, though he shouldn’t have been surprised by that. “Who _really_ runs Storm’s End?”

“Since he was made Lord of Storm’s End, Robert has made his own decisions,” he answered. “But is said that he will listen to the wise counsel of Maester Cressen, and allow him to make decisions on matters he feels are not worth his attention. Lord Stannis will follow the advice of Ser Harbert, but Robert will not. He hates the man.”

Lady Jane nodded and backed away. This time, he struck first, or attempted to. He missed, but was able to recover and bring up his sword in time to block her strike. She turned into it and wrapped her arm around his throat before he could make another move.

“Dead. I hear a lot of people say it’s strange that you and Robert are so close. Why is that? How did that happen?”

“Is that not two questions, Lady Jane?” he asked as she released him.

She shrugged. “The same question worded two different ways. But pick one or the other if it makes you feel better.”

“We are of an age, and spent most of our days together. I suppose we just grew close, like brothers. It is true that he is brash, impulsive, and impatient. But he fears nothing, and has honor of his own. I trust him with my life,” he answered. She was right, their bond was difficult to explain. “Is that to your satisfaction, Lady Jane?”

“Sure. And you can drop the “Lady” part.” She tossed her knife up and caught it in her left hand. “Let’s make this a little more interesting.”

He, too, switched his sword to his other hand. That turned out a mistake. He was not well practiced with his left, while Lady Jane seemed to have no trouble at all. She ducked under his awkward first swing, slipped through when he attempted to block her with his arm and was behind him with her knife at the back of his neck. “Dead. If you do this, you want to slip the knife between the vertebra. Though if you stab hard enough it won’t matter. Anyway, what kind of drunk is Robert? Happy, sad, angry?”

“You are very curious about Lord Robert, La- Jane,” he mentioned. Ned thought he knew why already; he was aware Lya was less than thrilled with her betrothal, and their guest spent a lot of time with his sister. “May I ask why?”

She cocked her head. “I think you know why.”

“When Robert is in his cups, he tends towards violence, especially when he is slighted,” he admitted. He was uncomfortable describing his friend’s faults, but it was hardly a secret. “I can temper his impulses, but not all of the time.”

Somehow, that managed a smile from the strange woman. “Sounds like a few people I know. Keep training with your off hand, you may need to use that some day. But for now you might want to switch back.”

He took the advice, taking his sword in his right hand once again. He was more graceful this time, able to push his opponent back and parry one of her strikes after predicting her feint. But once again, she dodged a strike, saw an opening, and moved in. She threw herself _backwards_ onto him, too close for him to do anything, and they landed on the ground with the breath gone from his lungs and her knife pointed at his neck.

“Dead. To be fair, that one throws a lot of people- pun intended. Not all that practical unless you’re desperate, but it’s a neat party trick.” She rolled off him and jumped to her feet. “Why are you so sure Robert won’t dishonor your sister?”

A flash of anger surged through him as he stood. He clamped down on it, though he suspected Lady Jane saw it. She seemed to see everything.

“He loves Lyanna. He head laid with other women, yes, but he loves only Lyanna,” he answered. “And as I have said, he is not without honor.”

“Sure.” She didn’t sound sure.

The blood was still roiling in his veins. Robert was his friend, a brother to him, and this lady had insulted his honor! True or false, an insult was an insult. The next round, he attacked ferociously, forcing his opponent back again and again with tranquil fury until he brought his sword down on her collarbone.

“You’re dead,” he called, surprised at his victory.

“And so are you. Look down.” He did as he was bidden, and saw her knife point at the inside of his leg. “Straight into the femoral artery. You’ll bleed out within minutes. Faster if you rip the knife out, and a lot of people will. It’s a really messy way to go.”

Of course. His wolf’s anger had blinded him, as it did Brandon time and time again. Forcing himself to push the anger away, he replied, “Very well played, Lady Jane, but I believe you will die first, so if I may, I would like to ask my question first.”

She nodded. “That’s fair.”

This would be his only chance. He was tiring and it was clear their spar would not much last longer, and it was doubtful she would let him get a hit in again. “Have you ever lost a battle, Lady Jane?”

A strange look crossed her face, and she did not answer immediately. Was she… in pain?

Maybe it was not right to ask. “If you do not wish-”

“No, I owe you an honest answer,” she said, cutting him off. She sighed, and took a deep breath. “Yes. I’ve lost battles. I’m still here, Earth is still here, the galaxy is still here… but none of that was free. I’ve lost people who I was very close to. I’ve watched people die when there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do. Sometimes you do all you can do and it’s not enough. You tell yourself you’ll do better next time, but for them there is no next time.”

“I hope you never have to see war, Ned. War is messy. War is hell, and it may take everything you hold dear,” she told him, transfixing him with sharp green eyes. “But I’m not naïve. On this world there’s a good chance you’ll have to raise a sword in anger. There are things worth fighting for. Worth dying for. Fight for what’s right. And if you have no choice, if you’re fighting for bullshit and you know it, fight for your brothers and sisters in arms. That’s never wrong. If you can come home, and they can come home, that’s something.”

He gulped, as if it would help him take in the words. “I understand.”

She shook her head, smiling ruefully. “No, you don’t, but you will.”

He tried to shake off his unease and asked, “Your question?”

“You want the hard one or the really hard one?” the woman asked. She sheathed her knife, and he couldn’t help but feel disappointment that their sparring session was already over.

He opened his mouth to answer.

“Ned!” Lyanna called from across the field. He glanced over, and there she was, running toward them uncaring of how it looked or how it soiled her skirts- no, she was wearing breeches, again.

“Do you really believe it’s true, fairy-tale, written in the stars love?” she asked intensely. “Or is Lyanna just Robert’s latest teenage crush, to be thrown aside when the new hotness shows up?”

His sister was approaching fast, and he struggled to answer. Was this the hard one or the really hard one?

“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it,” Lady Jane said to him. She gave Lyanna a nod, then turned and took her leave.

“So? Was it a difficult fight?” Lyanna asked with a smile on her face. So she hadn’t heard their conversation, then. That was a small mercy.

“Yes,” he answered honestly. “She was a very skilled opponent. I held myself well, and she helped me learn from my mistakes.”

“She kicked your ass, Ned,” his sister corrected, rolling her eyes. “Come on, Benjen wants to talk to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a lot longer than it was supposed to be. I’m expecting most chapters of this story to be shorter, but it’s possible others will swell to this length or longer.
> 
> I feel like I’m making Shepard kind of a Sue here, but, well, nothing I’ve put down is actually out of whack from canon. She was an elite soldier before the games, and is canonically a charismatic leader. The memes exist for a reason. Also, some of this is from Lyanna’s perspective, and she kind of hero-worships Jane for obvious reasons.
> 
> I’m mostly happy with the conversation between Jane and Rickard. The first version was awful, and I rewrote it three times. I think Jane still comes off a little strong, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable anymore.
> 
> I'm not sure if I'm going to stick with the idiosyncratic chapter names (all are song titles) or not.


	2. Nemo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually started writing a version of this months ago, but decided to start from the beginning instead. This is almost a complete rewrite and uses very little of that. I’m still not entirely happy with it, but I’m not willing to scrap it and rewrite it again.
> 
> As far as I can tell, it’s never stated whether Howland is already Lord of the Neck at the time of the Tourney. For this, I’ve gone with “not yet”.
> 
> It’s really annoying having to dance around modern expressions when writing segments from the perspectives of characters that have no business knowing them. I think that’s why I prefer writing from the perspectives of Shepard (who can regularly use these and more) and Lyanna (who’s been exposed to them enough by now to use them occasionally).
> 
> Note that I’m not sticking with a strict one-perspective-per-chapter format like GRRM does. This one alternates between Jane Shepard and Howland Reed.

“Are you sure this will work?” Lyanna asked nervously. She expertly brought her horse to a stop beside the cart her often companion was lounging in the back of.

“I covered the scars, grew my hair out, and even fluffed my eyelashes for this. As long as I don’t talk enough for anyone to notice the accent, I should pass,” Jane Shepard answered. She gave Lyanna a reassuring smile. “Besides, it’s too late to back out now.”

“Then, I suppose for the next week, I shall call you Jeyne Snow.”

After much deliberation, she and Lord Rickard had decided on a cover story. “Jeyne Snow” was a young bastard woman, of a Tully mother and a father that might have been a Lannister or might have been the local dirt farmer. She had the hair and the eyes for it, though her facial features were wrong. Adjusting her hair and adding a few touches of makeup would fix that and make it plausible enough.

She’d asked him bluntly why he figured a highborn bastard was the way to go, instead of some random smallfolk. He’d explained that it would not be appropriate for Lyanna to be accompanied by a smallfolk woman in many situations where someone of higher birth would be acceptable. A non-bastard would have been preferable, but it would be very obvious that she had suddenly appeared from nowhere. A newly acknowledged bastard would be a more plausible cover.

They had the cooperation of Lord Hoster Tully, who would fiercely deny that one of his cousins bore a bastard, in such a way that nobody would believe him. It was implied, though not explicitly stated, that Hoster expected something in return. She didn’t know how much Rickard had revealed to him, but from the letters she’d seen he seemed very curious about her.

She didn’t like that, but Rick had done it before she could object.

“Jeyne Snow” would be Lyanna’s handmaiden. As a handmaiden of bastard status, there were times when it was appropriate for her to accompany Lyanna and times when it was not. She had those times figured out… mostly. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but it was one that few would question.

Reluctantly, she’d donned a dress for this op, a simple homespun garment as befitting a woman of her station on outward inspection. However, she’d modified- or, more accurately, Wylla had modified- the garment so that its panels would break away if pulled. Both her boots and riding gloves were waterproofed, and she wore a ballistic vest, modern undergarments, and a Stiletto light pistol underneath.

The whole thing was probably the most ignoble op she’d run since Monrovia, but she felt the same surge of excitement all the same.

“I am at your service, milady,” Jane replied, her voice meek and raised an octave. She curtsied and managed a modicum of grace. It was a strange action to her, made more difficult by her breakaway dress.

Lyanna visibly recoiled in response.

She dropped the facade, just for a moment, and gently reminded the girl, “Remember, I’m new, but I’m _your handmaiden_. You have a part to play too.”

She nodded. “Of course, Jeyne.”

“I believe it wouldn’t be proper for the daughter of a high lord to be seen with a handmaiden at a formal reception. Before, but not during,” Jane gently reminded her.

“Right.” She gulped, still clearly nervous.

“I’ll be around, Lyanna,” she reassured the girl, squeezing her shoulder. “You might see me, you might not, but I’ll be around.”

* * *

The skies were clear that day, the sun pleasantly warm and the morning dew gone by noon. It was spring, and the fields were green as far as the eye could see. The crannogman was content to just stroll along, spear loose in his hand. The chaos of Harrenhal and the tourney grounds didn’t appeal to him as much as the simple wilderness. A faint voice called to him, but he ignored it and continued on.

A man- no, a boy, no more than fifteen yet already taller than him- stepped in front of him. He snarled. “Oi! You fucking deaf? You not hear us? There mud in your ears?”

Howland Reed sighed. He gripped his spear tighter and stepped back, straight into someone else. There were three of them, all boys larger than him. They were dressed better than smallfolk but not as well as lordlings; squires to sworn knights, most likely. They had him surrounded.

“I think he’s simple,” the boy behind him suggested. He grabbed Howland roughly by the shoulder and turned him around. “You simple?”

“No, I just refuse to be goaded by your words,” he replied quietly. Then, he flipped his spear around and drove it toward the boy’s foot.

It was a mistake. The three-pronged spear, made for hunting rather than combat, missed by an inch and embedded itself in the ground. Before he could free it, the boys were on top of him. He found himself thrown to the ground, weapon just out of reach.

“Look, the mudman’s where he belongs!” one of the boys shouted, to raucous laughter.

Howland stumbled to his knees, crawling away and reaching for his spear. He almost had it in his grip when one of the boys stomped on his hand, sending spikes of pain shooting up his arm. The boy kicked the spear away, then savagely kicked the crannogman in the side. He gasped in pain, then stars filled his vision as another one of the boys kicked him in the back. He still managed to roll away and stumble to unsteady feet.

“Oughta stayed in your swamp, mudman,” one of the boys spat, shoving the crannogman back down again. This time they were merciless, kicking and spitting on the small man as he helplessly tried to protect himself. Through narrowing vision, he tried to get a good view of the boys’ faces. He would need to know what they looked like.

“Hey!” a voice, shrill but fierce, shouted. The she-wolf. It could be no one else. “That’s my father’s man you’re kicking!”

“Your father’s not here, little lady.” The boy’s voice was rude, but the beating stopped. The boys were focused on a dark-haired girl just a bit taller than Howland, wearing a man’s riding clothes with a tourney sword in her hand.

She raised it into a fighting stance. “No, but I am.”

The boys laughed, but only for a moment. Before they could react, the girl was upon them. She knocked one of the boys nearly to the ground, ducked under one of the others’ fists, and whacked another in the shins. They were totally outmatched, and the girl whirled around them, avoiding their comparatively clumsy attacks and easily getting in hits of her own. As soon as their ringleader was down, the boys scattered, running for the hills.

The girl handed him his spear, and he leaned on it as he struggled to his feet. “You must be Lady Lyanna.”

“That’s right,” she answered. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Howland Reed.” He offered a hand, then retracted it when he realized it was covered with dirt and blood.

“Lord Reed’s son. I thought so,” Lyanna said. Her smile turned to a frown when she got a good look at his sorry state. “We need to see to those wounds. Come with me.”

* * *

The she-wolf led him to her tent, located square in the middle of the Stark encampment. The Starks were of the North, and it was not elaborate, though it was finer than what they would have had in the Neck. Two bedrolls were in the tent, along with a few trunks and a glowing brazier. A woman perhaps ten years older than Lyanna, with shoulder-length Tully red hair, sat in the corner reading a book.

“This is Jeyne Snow, my handmaiden,” Lyanna introduced. “She’ll see to your wounds.”

The handmaiden’s green eyes bored into him, though they seemed more curious than hostile. “Who’s he?”

As Lyanna explained, the handmaiden began pulling things out of a satchel. She pushed her sleeves up and slipped on gloves, which struck him as a singularly odd thing to do. She then uncorked a bottle and poured its contents over her hands. It smelled of liquor. Only then, she retrieved linen bandages and began her work. First she cleaned his wounds with the same liquid, which stung but not too painfully. Then she spread some sort of ointment on them and wrapped them with cloth, her grip firm but gentle and her movements decisive with experience.

He remained silent throughout, though questions swum in his mind. Why would a handmaiden be experienced in a healer’s arts, and strange ones at that? Unless…

He looked at her again, a long look rather than a nervous glance.

“She’s not your handmaiden.” It was a statement, not a question.

The woman and the girl exchanged a look.

“You’re not of the North, are you, Jeyne?” he asked, examining the woman. She had altered her appearance, but he saw through it. Jeyne. Jane. He felt his jaw drop. “You’re the fallen star. You’re _the Shepherd_. You have to be.”

The woman dropped her right hand to her leg, just under the hem of her dress. He didn’t know why or how, but he knew this meant danger. “How do you know?”

“I…” He chewed his lip, then shook his head. As firmly as he could muster, he blurted out, “You’ll find out in time. I can’t say more, I don’t know myself.”

The Shepherd glared at him. It may have been the truth, but no one would believe it.

Lyanna reminded her, “He is my father’s bannerman.”

“Then I should probably talk to Rick about leaks,” she replied crossly. “The likelihood of a secret getting out is proportional to the _square_ of the number of people who know it. At this rate the whole fucking kingdom will know who I am.”

He did not dare correct their assumption. He was sure that he had not heard of this woman from Lord Stark or his lord father, but it was possible, and a better story than the other one he had in mind.

It hardly mattered anyway, for a moment later a man, a boy, and one in between came bounding into the tent. They all had the classic Stark look- Lyanna’s brothers. Benjen, Eddard, and the heir, Brandon.

He bowed his head respectfully. “My lords.”

The Shepherd did not, instead continuing to strip off her gloves and pack away the bandages and bottles.

“A crannogman, Lyanna?” Brandon asked, confused.

“Howland Reed, my lord,” he introduced.

“Ah, you’re Lord Reed’s heir.” The man must have noticed his wounds, for an angry look crossed the face of the lord who was not to be. “What happened? Who did this?”

“I… fell,” he excused lamely.

Beside him, the Shepherd stifled a laugh.

None of the others seemed to accept the explanation, either.

“You _fell_?” Eddard Stark questioned.

“It is nothing but my own clumsiness, my lord,” he insisted.

Lyanna and Brandon shared a look. The man nodded. “Very well.”

“May I take my leave now?”

“Of course. I will see you at the feast tonight, then.”

“Oh, um…” He hadn’t planned on attending the feast, and scrambled to think of a way to politely excuse himself and not offend Lord Stark or his heir. His explanation came out as more of a question than a statement. “I am only a lowly crannogman. It would not be my place.”

“God, Howland, you _really_ need to work on your excuses,” the Shepherd stated, barely suppressing a laugh.

“Bullshit!” Lyanna snapped. “You’re heir to the Neck. You have a place on that bench, the same as the other sworn lords and their families. The Dustins, Hornwoods, Mormonts and Manderlys are all going to be there.”

“Don’t force him. I’ve met people who just couldn’t handle crowds,” the Shepherd cautioned. “But if you think you don’t belong there, Lyanna’s right. You have a right to it. Hell, I’m a bastard and I’ll be there. At the short table, but still.”

“You’re not _really_ a bastard,” Lyanna pointed out.

The Shepherd made an odd tilting gesture with her hand. “Eh. Anyway, it’s beside the point.”

It wasn’t that he was afraid of crowds. It just wasn’t something his people did. The crannogmen were quiet and practical. But it would be something new. And he did come this far. If it were true… he had to be at the feast.

Reluctantly, he agreed. “Then I shall see you at the feast.”

“You’ll need something different to wear,” Brandon told him. “What you have on might have been acceptable once, but it looks like you ruined it when you fell.”

It was the pup, Benjen, who answered. “I’ll help him find something that fits.”

* * *

The great feast was held in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, a cavernous space that lived up to the name. It was lit by innumerable torches and filled with sturdy tables, piled high with a cornucopia of cuisine. The royal family was seated at one end along with their hosts and honoured guests, then the Great Houses and their guests, then the vassal houses, and then the rest. The seating arrangements were done carefully to avoid conflict as much as possible.

Naturally, Shepard found herself sitting at the far end with the under-underlords, hedge knights, and barely recognized bastards. She halfheartedly greeted the guests around her and ate at a controlled pace, more focused on observing the various lords than enjoying the food or festivities.

She kept her face a mask when she caught sight of King Aerys II Targaryen. It would not do to recoil in horror and disgust, which would have been her immediate reaction. The man looked like hell; he was only in his thirties according to everything she’d heard, and he looked twice that age. His hair was long, matted, and unkempt, and his nails were over a decimetre long. Half-healed scabs and scars traced up and down his arms.

According to the rumours, he cut himself constantly on the awkward Iron Throne. It was poetic, but she wasn’t sure if it was the truth. She’d seen similar cuts before, and those had been very deliberate. She couldn’t help but feel pity. He looked like a man who needed a shrink and a lot of drugs, not the crushing responsibility of leading a nation.

Looks could be deceiving, but judging by the way he snapped at and dismissed one of his Kingsguard knights, she doubted it. Great. The Seven Kingdoms had a literal madman in charge.

She caught a few whispers and a few not-quite-hidden looks. The Seven Kingdoms had a madman in charge and everyone knew it.

Rhaegar, his heir, was more promising. He had the same purple eyes and silver-blonde hair as his father- something outside the normal variation of Terrans, she noted- but seemed a lot more, well, with it. His eyes shone with intelligence, and flitted back and forth, observing. He almost managed to hide the tension in his face. Well, she couldn’t blame him for that one. In his position, she’d be tense, too.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” the woman to her left asked rhetorically. Flowers, her name was. “Oh, what I would not give to be his lady wife…”

She didn’t disagree with that sentiment, but it would be a difficult choice between _being_ his lady wife and _taking_ his lady wife. Elia Martell was a darker-skinned beauty who reminded her of classical Mediterraneans or the settlers on the eastern edge of the Mariner Valley. She was slender but short, and seemed just as stressed as her husband.

She turned to Flowers, smiled, and faked a Northern accent the best she could. “I would give _much_.”

It probably came across as more erotic than she intended, or else Flowers was just drunk off her ass, because the young woman burst out laughing. She faked a laugh, too, then tossed back her goblet of wine. As strong as it was, it still wouldn’t get her drunk.

That one she could blame on The Illusive Asshole and the fuckers at Cerberus.

Another course was served shortly after, some sort of hearty beef stew that she ate mechanically. At Winterfell, they’d carefully explained how meals were laid out, which she’d meticulously memorized. At Harrenhal, they’d broke that pattern and shot everything she’d learned to shit. She’d just have to live with ending up either stuffed or starved and wing it if someone asked about any of it.

As it turned out, Prince Rhaegar was a talented musician, too. From her position at the end she couldn’t make out the words, but she could just catch a glimpse of him playing a harp and its sorrowful notes carried well enough.

Lyanna was crying after the song. Benjen said something to her, and the girl poured out her goblet of wine on his head. She stifled a laugh at that.

Howland, she noticed, was a few seats down. The crannogman’s eyes were darting to and fro. It took her a moment to realize what he was doing, and then she almost laughed out loud. He was trying to ID the boys who’d attacked him, and the knights who they probably served.

She would need to talk to him. And probably talk him out of doing something stupid. Or talk one of the Starks out of doing something stupid. She wasn’t sure about Howland, but every Stark except Ned was young and hot-blooded.

She leaned back, took another drink of wine, and turned her attention back to the crowd. Many had stood up and began dancing, including Brandon Stark. There was no doubt a cue to begin the dance, but she’d missed it. The style wasn’t one she recognized, but she hardly knew anything about dancing so it could have been identical to something on Earth for all she knew.

“Come on, Jeyne, we should join them,” Flowers urged, breaking her concentration. “Some of the knights will be so into their cups they won’t care about who we are.”

That would be a problem. She couldn’t dance for shit and was well aware of it. It was the one thing everyone knew Commander Shepard fucking _sucked_ at. Tabloids mocked her for it, Garrus teased her over it, hell, the crew had once given her an ancient “Dance For Dummies” book as a birthday present.

Her lack of skill would probably be noticed, so she didn’t dance, just wandered her way through the crowds. Flowers was wrong; they paid her little attention. She was dressed better than a peasant but worse than even the banner lords. A bastard, third daughter of a minor house, or serving girl with a drop of noble blood. Someone unworthy of their attention.

That wasn’t a part she’d been able to play in years. In a way, it was a nice change from having the eyes of the entire galaxy on her. Tonight she was Jeyne Snow, nobody.

She wandered her way to where three of the Starks were brooding- there was no better word for it. Lyanna, Benjen, and Eddard stood in a semicircle, cups in hand and muttering among themselves. She couldn’t help but smirk, amused. They now had definitive proof that medieval nobles clustered the same way as modern shipboard Marines and 20th-century teenagers in early vids.

Technically, approaching would be a breach of protocol, but as long as she kept her head down and voice quiet she could be mistaken for a messenger, which was acceptable. Mostly. The complicated customs gave her a bigger headache than the primitive booze.

“What do you think of the party, Jane?” Lyanna asked upon catching sight of her. Her cheeks were flush with intoxication. She was 14 and couldn’t be more than forty or fifty kilos- Shepard was amazed the girl was still standing.

“It’s interesting,” she allowed. She checked their surroundings before adding quietly, “Your king would be 4-F on psych grounds. Howland has eyes on those squires and their knights. Don’t do anything stupid, we’ll talk about it tonight.”

“What did she just say?” Benjen asked, confused.

Lyanna shook her head. “Not here.”

She turned to Ned. “What are you staring at?”

“Lady Ashara,” Benjen immediately told her. Like Lyanna, he looked drunk off his ass. He pointed out a tall woman with dark hair and violet eyes.

Violet eyes. She’d have to note that down somewhere.

“She’s danced with Ser Barristan and Prince Oberyn Martell, but Ned’s too nervous to ask for her hand,” Lyanna answered. “Brandon went to ask for him, but I think he got distracted.”

Oh, to be a teenager again.

“Great. Stay out of trouble. I’ll be around.”

She disappeared back into the crowd, making a conscious effort to move less fluidly than she normally did. As far as everyone knew, she was a woman of very average size with a baseline liver who’d just had a feast’s worth of strong wine. She should be uncoordinated if not absolutely stumbling.

As the song ended, she managed to find Brandon Stark. She kept back this time, watching from a distance as she weaved her way through the lords, ladies, knights, and servants. He’d been dancing with a lady she didn’t recognize, but was now moving toward Lady Ashara. They exchanged a few words, and the Stark heir moved off.

“Care for a dance, my lady?” a suave voice interrupted.

 _Fuck_.

She spun to face the man. With dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin, he looked Mediterranean or East Mariner, much like Elia Martell. Also Dornish, perhaps? He wore the finery of a high noble, and the smug smirk of a man who thought he was God’s gift to the universe.

“I’m no lady, milord,” she excused, bowing her head and doing a polite curtsey. “Just a bastard from the North.”

“In Dorne, we take a rather different view of bastards,” the man told her. “A softer view. A better view. You are born of love, so why do we look down upon that?”

She feigned bashfulness. “That’s very generous of you, lord-”

“Prince Oberyn,” he introduced, taking her hand in his and giving it a gentle kiss. “Or simply Oberyn. No need to stand on ceremony.”

So this was the infamous Red Viper. She’d been briefed on all the major players that would be at the tourney, but in a pre-photography world, had no ability to put names to faces. From what she’d been told, Oberyn Martell was as dangerous as he was promiscuous.

“Jeyne Snow.” She gave him another bashful smile. “I don’t know how to dance. Not really.”

Oberyn grinned and offered his hand. “It’s not so difficult. Take my hand and follow my lead.”

Shepard wanted to decline the offer. There were a thousand little tells that would give her away as something other than what she said she was, and every moment she spent close to the man was a moment he could figure it out. Not to mention the eyes that would be drawn to the odd pairing.

But even in Dorne, it would be improper for a woman of her station to decline his offer, so she took his hand and allowed him to lead her into a dance. She tried to mimic the Dornishman’s movements, stumbling over the unfamiliar steps. The music’s weak beat and her even weaker sense of rhythm didn’t help matters.

“Where were you born, Jeyne?” Oberyn asked, putting her into a spin.

She spun too far, corrected, and replied, “Don’t know, exactly. I was raised in the Barrowlands, so somewhere there, I’d imagine.”

He caught her and swung her gently to and fro. “And you came here with Lord Stark’s retinue?”

Her answer was simple. “Yes.”

“You’re of the North, but you have the look of a Tully.” His voice was questioning.

She nodded. “They tell me that.”

“Do you know who fathered you?”

“Do you always ask this many questions?” she snapped back. _Fuck! A bastard girl would never dare say that to a fucking Prince of Dorne._

Instead, the Dornishman laughed. “I suppose I deserved that. That was not a fair question for a fair dance with a fair lady.”

“I apologize for my rudeness,” she said deferentially. “But truly, I do not know. My mother was convinced he was a Lannister. Others have told me he was a common blacksmith.”

“Then was your mother…”

She nodded reluctantly, tripping over her feet. “A second or third cousin, I think. Born in the Barrowlands, too.”

“Interesting,” he replied, twirling her again. “I have four natural daughters myself, each born of a different mother. Perhaps I could tell you of them, after the feast.”

“A generous offer, but I must return to my lady’s service,” she excused.

“That’s unfortunate.” He gave her one last spin, and her awkward attempt to follow almost sent them both sprawling.

“I told you I couldn’t dance,” she reminded him.

“I shall thank you for the dance anyways,” Oberyn replied lightly. “It is not every day I dance with a supposed bastard woman with the build of a warrior, a dagger on her hip, and a fake Northern accent.”

Fuck! She dropped her fake accent and asked directly, “Why the charade, then?”

His answer was cryptic. “I am not your enemy, and I doubt you are mine. I have my reasons and you have yours. We are simply two adventurers who have crossed paths this night. No less, and, I think, no more.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow.

“I have travelled the world and heard many stories. I would enjoy hearing yours, though I doubt it is the strangest,” Oberyn assuaged. “You have nothing to fear from me. Nor from our gracious King, I think, so long as you don’t catch his attention. But I suggest you avoid Prince Rhaegar. The Silver Prince is a very perceptive man.”

With that, they parted ways. Him to chase after some lady or other, and her in search of her table and the half-finished goblet of wine on it.

“Fuck!” she cursed under her breath. Prince Oberyn didn’t know the full story, nor did he guess it, but he saw right through Jeyne Snow. She doubted he’d put the whole story together before the end of the tourney, but this was not a good start. She had no fucking idea what the Dornishman would actually do with what he found out.

She weighed her options. The feast was already winding down. She hadn’t been able to even catch sight of Robert Baratheon, and there was no guarantee he was still at the feast. Probably not worth the risk. If she ran into someone as perceptive as Oberyn and less forgiving, it would be a disaster. As for the Dornishman, there was nothing she could do about that now.

She tossed back the rest of her wine, then slinked away from the feast toward her tent.

* * *

It was long past dark when Lyanna returned to the tent. She stumbled as she walked, visibly drunk with a flush visible on her face by the brazier’s light. Shepard tucked away her borrowed book- a very biased history of the Seven Kingdoms- and nodded to her.

“Did you leave the feast early?” the girl asked. “I didn’t see you after Ned danced with Lady Ashara.”

“Prince Oberyn almost made me,” she answered. “He forced me into a dance, and saw right through Jeyne Snow. He realized I was armed, dangerous, and faking the Northern accent.”

“I didn’t think anyone would want to dance with you,” Lyanna admitted after a pause.

“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“No, I know what you meant.” She sighed. “The good news is that either Oberyn hasn’t heard of your dad’s fallen star, or hasn’t put two and two together. He figured out I wasn’t who I said I was, but he didn’t push for answers. I need to keep an eye on Oberyn, and I need to be more careful avoiding people.”

Lyanna nodded. “Did you meet Robert?”

She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t even get eyes on him.”

A look of disappointment. “Oh.”

“Day one was a bust. I would have liked to have started stronger, but it is what it is,” she admitted. “The tourney’s nine days long. We’ve still got nine days to meet with Robert, figure out how he ticks, and convince him to call the whole thing off.”

The girl seemed to accept that, but stood and paced back and forth. She glanced up, sighed, and stated, “There’s another thing.”

“Shoot.”

The response came rapid-fire. “Okay, so I was talking with Benjen and Howland Reed at the feast. We figured out which knights those squires that attacked Howland served- right, sorry, you were there for that. So Benjen says he can get Howland a horse and armor so he could avenge himself. I think he wanted to but he muttered something about hands and boats and wandered off. I ran after him and he looked so sad and then I realized what if I entered the tournament and avenged his honor for him? And I’m starting to have second thoughts but I kind of made a promise and it was a vague promise but it was still a promise, you know?”

She couldn’t help but glare at Lyanna. “You have _got_ to be kidding me. You want me to help you enter a fucking joust?”

“You don’t like this,” Lyanna observed. To her credit, she had a slightly guilty look on her face. For a moment, anyway, before it was replaced with anger. “Don’t tell me you don’t want me to enter because I’m a girl.”

“No, that’s not why. Jousting was banned on Earth centuries ago for good reasons. I didn’t come here to get you killed.” Jane sighed. “If I refuse to help you, will you go and do it anyway?”

“No,” she answered completely unconvincingly.

Great. “Tomorrow. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m being deliberately vague about how much Howland knows. He had just come from the Isle of Faces, and there’s general consensus he saw something there, but we don’t know what. This is in the books, I’m not sure if it’s in the show. I do have bigger plans for this that I may or may not get to.
> 
> The “dancing for dummies” thing is a reference to a piece of a Mass Effect fanart I can no longer find. It was a red-headed FemShep and had a caption or note that said “happy birthday- the crew” or something like that. If I find it again, I’ll link it.
> 
> Dancing with Oberyn is something I didn’t plan for this chapter and added on a whim, but I liked it enough to keep it. I have no idea how to write him, though- I’m not up to where he shows up in the show, and I haven’t seen much of him in the books yet.
> 
> Yeah, I’m writing this way blinder than I should.
> 
> Finally, I’m having some second thoughts about this subplot in general, but it’s planned out and it’s about to get exciting anyway, so I’m just going to go full speed ahead on it. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t.


	3. Speed And Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a beast to write. It just didn't want to come together. I threw out half-finished section after half-finished section and even reworked the whole flow of the chapter once. The end result isn't perfect, and it's shorter than I originally intended, but I'm mostly happy with it.
> 
> For those of you who think the Lyanna thing is a boring subplot and were hoping this fic would go in a different direction, we’re about to hit a pivotal moment this chapter.

It was taking longer than expected for them to find what they needed.

Jane was good at making things disappear, but it took finesse and a bit of patience. If one of them found a piece they needed, she could grab it with relative ease. N7 training and a tactical cloak were kind of an out of context problem for a medieval world.

No, the problem was finding what they needed in the first place.

They’d agreed early on not to steal too much from one person, or to steal from anyone who looked like they couldn’t afford to lose a piece. It was partly to avoid reprisals, but mostly because neither of them wanted to totally screw over anyone. They also couldn’t steal too much from any one _house_ , lest it arouse suspicion.

Already, they’d had to bend some of those rules.

The biggest problem was that Lyanna was a girl of fourteen, short in stature and slim of frame. Westerosi seemed to be shorter than Terran average and well below Martian or spacer average, but most of the competitors were on the larger side of the scale. And every single competitor they’d seen was male, meaning that some of the pieces wouldn’t fit even if they were vaguely the right size.

It would have been a lot easier if Lyanna just _had a set_ like apparently _both of her brothers did at her age_.

Not that she approved of that. In a lot of ways, this world was more like Tuchanka or Omega than Earth, despite the species of its inhabitants. It wasn’t unknown for men to march off to war before their twentieth birthday. The previous day, she’d watched a sixteen year old boy named to the royal guard. People had clapped and cheered like it was a great thing. All she could think of was how much the kid would probably regret it later, especially considering what the Kingsguard vows meant.

“Got a cuirass for you.” She tossed the item onto the growing pile in their tent. “I feel bad about taking it, but it’s the first one I’ve seen that looked even remotely close. If you paint it, it might even be presentable.”

Lyanna picked up the piece and inspected it, running her fingers along the rough metal. “It’s beat to hell, but you’re right about the size. It’ll work, I think.”

“Okay, what are we still missing?”

“A shield,” Lyanna answered immediately. She glanced at the pile and the select pieces arranged around it again. “That’s the big one. I need a right pauldron and a left greave, but those shouldn’t be too hard. And I think I can borrow gauntlets from Ned or-”

Jane’s earpiece chimed, and she held up a hand, cutting her off.

“Is that the thing?”

She nodded. “Yep. Looks like Ned just ran into his friend.”

* * *

Ned Stark found Robert exactly where he expected- on the edge of the Baratheon camp, beside the casks of ale with one already tapped and a tankard in hand. At least this time, he had a proper table and stools, and wasn’t too deep into his cups yet. Of Robert’s many vices, drink was the worst.

“Ned! There you are!” Robert shouted. He paused to fill a second tankard before calling, “You didn’t see me at the feast, did you?”

He took a seat across from his friend and accepted the offered tankard. “My apologies. I did look for you, but I was preoccupied for most of the night.”

“Eh.” Robert waved him off, sloshing ale from his tankard onto the table. “I saw you with Lady Ashara. I’d leave you in the dirt if I had a chance like that, too.”

That wasn’t exactly how it went- it had been a very awkward affair, all things considered- but he didn’t correct his friend’s assumptions.

“How was she?” Robert asked, a lecherous grin on her face.

Ned knew what was really being asked, but instead answered, “Beautiful, elegant, and graceful.”

It was an understatement. Ashara Dayne was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, with an easily smile and an airy grace. He’d felt his heart flutter, and, for a brief moment, had thought hers did, too. But he didn’t have much of a way with words, especially when it came to pretty ladies.

Robert didn’t care about any of that. “No, I meant how _was she_?”

He admitted, “We only danced.”

“You had the eye of a Dornishwoman and you _only danced_? You fucking dolt, Ned!” Robert chided, then bellowed a deep laugh. “Well, I didn’t just dance last night, I’ll tell you that!”

Ned let the words flow around him as Robert discussed his conquests in detail, _too much detail_. He felt his cheeks heat. Robert loved to boast, and he didn’t mind listening to _most_ of the things Robert boasted about. Especially fighting, which the man was at least genuinely good at. But hearing about the carnal adventures of the man that would be his goodbrother was too much. This time, there was an undertone that he recognized all too well. There was someone else Robert was pining after, someone he didn’t get.

“Who’s the new wench?” Robert asked suddenly. Or perhaps not so suddenly, perhaps Robert had been leading up to it, and he hadn’t been paying attention.

Of course. Carefully, he asked, “To which girl are you referring?”

“You know the one! The one you brought with you!”

That barely narrowed it down. He knew who it was, of course- it _had_ to be- but they’d had this exchange time and time again and if he let on that he knew, it would make his friend suspicious. He shot a look, the same one he always shot him.

Robert waved his hand in a circle. “You know, the one that looks like a Tully. Hair like a fish, anyway. Moves like she’s holding in a piss. Your sister’s wench!”

He had been hoping that _maybe_ Robert had seen someone else, but it was never likely. He talked about bosoms and bottoms and other womanly parts, but in truth it was the exotic that invariably caught Robert’s eye. “Her new handmaiden?”

Robert nodded, then tossed back another tankard of ale.

“Jeyne Snow. A bastard from the Barrowlands.”

There was a glint in his eye. “Barrowlands bastard or not, I’ll wager she’s something else beneath the sheets.”

Ned bit back his disgust. He loved Robert like a brother, but sometimes he was the dickhead brother you wanted to punch in the face.

Appropriately, those had been Lady Jane’s words, more or less.

He still wasn’t entirely sure if Robert realized his discomfort and relished in it or just didn’t notice at all. The young Lord of Storm’s End continued to describe the various acts he would like to try with Lady Jane and how he figured she would enjoy them. Decorum and respect were hardly words Robert knew, at least when he was in a state such as this.

“Jane is a proper lady and you would do well to treat her as such!” Ned snapped, a little more abruptly than he should have.

“Lady?” Robert was curious, and that was worse than if he had just been angry. “I thought she was a bastard!”

“She may be a bastard, but that doesn’t mean she’s not a lady too,” Ned stammered defensively.

“Seven hells, Ned, you aren’t fucking her, are you?” He laughed heartily. “You are, aren’t you?”

“I have never lain with her.”

“You _want_ to take her maidenhead, then.” There was a mischievous glint in his eye.

“It is not mine to take.”

“Well there sure as shit is _something_ you’re not letting on, Ned!” Robert snapped, slamming the tankard down. “Is she one of those girls who fucks other girls and you want to watch that?”

Where did _that_ come from? “No- I mean, I don’t think so. It’s not about sex, Robert!”

“Then what _is_ it about?” Robert pressed. “There’s something about this woman you’re not letting out. You can’t lie worth a shit, Ned.”

He didn’t think that was true- not that he _was_ a liar, mind- but Robert could see through his words just as easily as he could see through Robert’s.

“Will you swear to me you won’t repeat what I tell you?” Ned asked quietly, leaning forward. “I mean it this time, Robert. If my father finds out, he’ll put me to the sword.”

He sighed, but nodded. “You’re no fun, but you have my word.”

“She’s not a bastard, and not from the Barrowlands.” It was the truth, more or less. “She’s a highborn lady, from a realm my lord father hopes to secure an alliance with.”

“Sneaky, eh?” Robert asked, quietly. Well, quietly for Robert. If someone was close by, they could probably make out the words. “Where’s she from? Westeros, or somewhere else? She looks like a Tully, I tell you. Got the same hair as your brother’s lady, she does. A third Tully sister, hidden from the world. There’s a hell of a story. Or maybe I’m full of it, and she’s from across the Narrow Sea. What do you think, Ned?”

He shook his head. “I do not know. My lord father did not say.” Also technically the truth.

* * *

_“Fine, fine. We’ll not speak of it, then.” Robert paused. “Jousts are starting today. Boring as piss, but might be worth seeing your brother knock the prince on his ass.”_

“That’s Robert Baratheon?” Jane Shepard asked rhetorically, turning the volume down with a flick of her finger. “Fuck me, he could make a sailor blush!” She brought one finger to her cheek. “Belay that, he _is_ making a sailor blush.”

Lyanna clearly had no words for it. “He’s, um, yeah…”

“God, I’m sorry. Now I understand why you’re so pissed off about this,” Jane said sympathetically. The comments about her in particular were enough to take him from _boorish, but not unexpected for this world_ to _complete piece of shit_. Making it personal was a step too far- though to be fair, Robert had no idea she was listening, so he hadn’t done that on purpose. Reluctantly, she added, “Robert is right about one thing, though. Your brother is a _shitty_ liar. Good call on not telling him about the wire in his shirt.”

“Why is it called a wire, anyway?” Lyanna asked quietly, recovering somewhat.

She shrugged. “I think it actually _was_ a wire a long time ago.”

“So, what do you think?” the girl asked, resting her chin in her hands. It was a childish gesture, another reminder that she was only fourteen, far too young to be worrying about marriage or charging headlong into danger.

Jane double-checked that her omni-tool was still recording, then shut off the audio. “Well, we learned one thing. He’s got his eyes on me now.”

“You wouldn’t-”

Like hell. She shook her head. “He’s going to have to get in line, and it’s a _really long line_. But maybe we can use it to our advantage. Well, in theory.”

“In theory? Do you have a plan? Or do you not want to, well, you know…”

“It’s not that I don’t want to- well, it’s that, too- but seduction isn’t really in my playbook,” Jane explained, suppressing a shudder. She’d done a lot of shit, but there were places she wouldn’t go. “Honeypot is really Miranda’s thing. I’m more of a climb over the fence, slit their throat in their sleep kind of girl.”

She paused. “So, in theory, it goes like this. I catch his fancy, make contact, and push his buttons until I’m the only thing he’s thinking about and he has no desire left for anyone else. But again, that’s not the kind of op I run. I don’t know how to pull it off even if I didn’t find it incredibly gross.”

“I don’t blame you for not wanting to do that,” Lyanna assured her.

“More generally, he’s into exotic women,” she continued. “Foreign, unusual, rule-breaking, that’s his type. He talks about all the sexy bits but that’s not what catches his eye. If it was, he never would have noticed me, because let’s be honest, I don’t fit the mold. No, he looks for the nail that sticks up from the board.”

“Okay.” The girl clearly didn’t see where she was going with this.

“I think, maybe, with enough manipulation, we could get his sights set on Ashara Dayne. Unfortunately, she’s not from a big enough house- god, that sounds weird out loud- so he’s have to _really_ be into her to overrule everyone telling him what a stupid choice he’s making. Cersei Lannister would be a better match, but not his type, I don’t think,” Jane answered, thinking out loud. “But no matter what…”

“You’d be taking my problems and dumping them on someone else,” Lyanna finished. She tried to keep her voice upbeat, but she was glancing down, drawing circles in the dirt with a finger.

“It would be a lot easier to just kill him,” Jane mused, a thin smirk on her face.

Lyanna shot her a very concerned look. “You wouldn’t really do that, would you?”

She raised her hands. “I’m joking. I’m not going to kill him. But it would be easier. I’m pretty good at solving problems with a gun. Not the right way, but the easy way.”

The girl resumed her circles. “So what are we going to do?”

“ _I’m_ going to do a little more digging on Robert and then see if I can’t just talk him out of this whole thing,” Jane answered, voice firm. “ _You_ are going to stop worrying about this and get ready for your joust tomorrow.”

* * *

Most likely, the Knight of the Laughing Tree wouldn’t get a chance to ride until the afternoon, but Jane had insisted on getting an early start. Lyanna dug into a hearty breakfast of buttered toast and bacon as the woman began laying out her “borrowed” armor.

“I made some changes, but there wasn’t much I could do with just an omni-tool and whatever materials I could make disappear,” Jane explained. “I did do some reading. Apparently, most jousting fatalities were from bits of lance through the eye socket or neck injuries. I filled in the visor with transparent polymer and wrapped the neck piece with graphene fiber, but I couldn’t figure out anything to stop you from breaking your neck if you fall.”

“I won’t fall,” Lyanna insisted. Butterflies flitted in her stomach, but she forced them down. This would be her day. She had this.

“Have you ever done this before?”

“No. But I won’t fall.”

Jane shot her a wry look.

“I may have never jousted before, but I can ride, and jousting is ninety percent horsemanship,” she explained.

The woman nodded, seemingly accepting it.

Lyanna almost believed it, too.

With that, Lyanna began the arduous task of donning her armor, with her assistance. Jane wasn’t an experienced squire, and she wasn’t a trained knight. Most of the armor was of poor quality, and none of it matched, which didn’t make things any easier. She started with her gambeson, which was actually Benjen’s gambeson that they had crudely modified last night. Neither of them could sew well, and they’d eventually resorted to taping and fusing the seams. After that came the plates, one by one. She’d forgotten that the left arm plates had to be put on in a specific order because they interfered, and ended up having to redo those. Jane was right to get started early- it took longer than she had thought it would.

The set fit horrendously badly, all in all, but despite that she felt more comfortable in it than she ever had in the dresses she was all too often forced to wear.

Jane handed Lyanna her shield, the one that she had painted the night before. “Why a laughing tree?”

“It’s a weirwood, for the North,” she explained. In truth, it had been the first thing she thought of, and it had felt right, so she stuck with it.

“Okay, but why is it laughing?” Jane asked. “You know what, forget it, I’d rather leave it a mystery.”

“A little mystery is always fun. Did you put in the voice thing?”

She nodded. “First thing I did. Keyword is Jarvis, status will be in your HUD. When it’s on, you’ll sound like Uvenk The Space Emperor.”

That was a Krogan children’s cartoon, wasn’t it? According to Jane, it was extremely violent. She was all set, then. “Thank you. For everything.”

“I should be talking you out of this, not enabling you. But I know your type well enough to know you wouldn’t give a flying fuck about what I said,” Jane admitted. “So, kick ass. Forget about Robert. And don’t fall.”

* * *

Uvenk The Space Emperor had been an apt comparison. Some in the civilized parts of the galaxy saw jousting as a noble sport from a bygone era of chivalry, but to Jane, it echoed the blood sports of the Krogan homeworld and the Terminus systems far more than anything romantic.

She was sure there were a ton of rules, some written and some not, but the basic principle of the thing was simple. Two riders carrying lances rode hard at each other on parallel tracks, separated by a barrier. They slammed their lance into their opponent’s shield or armor. Usually, one of them would be knocked off.

Newton’s laws in action.

Grudgingly, she admitted that it did look kind of fun, and it was entertaining to watch. If you had no vids, no simulstims, a handful of plays and a dearth of books, this would kick ass. It wasn’t _good_ entertainment, and certainly not _positive_ , but in context it was a hell of a show.

Well, not so much for the knight who’d been violently thrown off his horse and hadn’t gotten up. The dirt hid the blood if there was any, but by the way he’d been dragged off the field, he was at the very least knocked out cold and very possibly dead.

Jane regretted- not for the first time, but more than ever- helping Lyanna enter the tourney. It was a bad, bad idea. But that ship had sailed. Lyanna needed this, and she would have done it anyway. She just hoped like hell the girl would live through it. She was young and inexperienced. So were her opponents, but anything could happen.

She sat near Benjen and Eddard Stark- two rows down, beside a man she didn’t recognize who had nasty-looking boils on his face. She figured he really ought to see a doctor, except what passed for a doctor here would probably make it worse. She found herself slowly moving away from him, despite the fact that she hadn’t gotten sick in years.

Unfortunately, her seating position meant that she couldn’t talk with either of the brothers. They’d still managed to exchange a few words on her way in.

“Have you seen Lyanna?” Benjen had asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

“She’s otherwise occupied,” Jane answered cryptically.

Ned seemed to have understood it, nodding at her with a knowing look in his eyes. Benjen didn’t, but seemed to accept her answer. He continued, “Could you ask her to return my gauntlets? I hope she doesn’t ruin them. I don’t know what she needs them for, but I might need them tomorrow.”

She nodded, hiding a thin smile. “Yeah, sure thing.”

“Do you have anything like this where you’re from?”

“Nope.”

It was late morning, just before the break for lunch, when the Knight of the Laughing Tree made her debut. She rode proudly in front of the crowd, who cheered enthusiastically- especially the smallfolk. Jane figured this had less to do with the mystery knight in particular, and more to do with her opponent. House Frey had a poor reputation, and this knight- Sir Steven, was it?- even more so.

She was glad to see the “mysterious underdog versus obvious bad guy” narrative was alive and well here, even if half the crowd would probably lose their shit if they knew who was actually under that ill-fitting armor.

Jane held her breath as the fighters charged. They were moving fast- scarily fast, all things considered. Then lance hit shield with a ferocious crunch, and the Frey knight tumbled to the ground as his opponent and his horse continued in their tracks. Lyanna’s lance was snapped in two, but she seemed to be unharmed, circling as the crowd cheered again.

“Fuck yeah!” she found herself shouting, one voice lost amid the din.

“One down, two to go,” an elated Lyanna chirped in her earpiece.

She almost cautioned the girl to be careful, but the crowd was dying down now, and she didn’t want to draw attention. So she waited with bated breath as the next knight, who wore the porcupine insignia of House Blount, took the field. She could tell immediately that he would be a more difficult opponent; he controlled his horse with a grace the previous knight lacked.

They took their positions and charged, horse, rider, and lance closing at breakneck speed. Once again, she held her breath, and once again, the knights smashed together. The sound of breaking wood was grating, and the splinters exploded in a cloud, but both knights emerged, both battered but neither broken.

The Blount man’s squire- the same boy that had accosted Howland- handed him a new lance, and a Whent man did the same for Lyanna. They took their positions, circling as the crowd waited on the edge of their seats, and then raced towards each other for a second time.

Both lances made contact, but the porcupine knight only managed a glancing blow while Lyanna’s lance hit him dead square in the chest. He went from moving forward to moving backwards in a split second as his horse continued, and the next second was sprawled on the ground.

She winced. He wasn’t dead, but that must have hurt.

“Whoo!” Lyanna exclaimed.

The last knight to face Lyanna was the pitchfork knight, from House Haigh. His armor was supposed to match the russet of the house he served, but the paint job was horrendous, and it just made it look permanently dirty. He rode poorly, too, not as bad as Jane but not as good as Lyanna or the Blount knight.

She didn’t hold her breath this time. Sure enough, the Haigh knight put on a poor showing. He seemed to charge against Lyanna the same as the other knights, but failed to land a hit at all while Lyanna’s lance struck him square in the midriff. He went crashing to the ground as the crowd erupted in cheer.

It was almost a disappointment, but she’d take three victories and Lyanna alive any day of the week.

“He’s good, isn’t he, whoever he is,” the boil-face man remarked.

Jane nodded, then muttered something deliberately unintelligible and headed out of the stands. She wanted to see the next part. In this tourney- maybe all or most tourneys, she hadn’t quite got that part- to the victor went the spoils. That meant the fallen knights’ horses and armor now belonged to the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Those weren’t cheap items and losing them could mean ruin. Generally, they could be ransomed back for less than acquiring new ones, though some knights would apparently refuse any offers and just keep what they had won.

They’d discussed this before, of course, but Lyanna always stopped short of telling her what she would do. Of course, she had a few guesses.

She ducked behind a barrel and activated her tactical cloak, then crossed between two tents and tucked herself away beside an empty wagon. It felt like cheating, but sometimes cheating was more efficient.

The three defeated knights were still in their armor, though they had removed their helmets. Lyanna, of course, kept hers on. Off her horse, the difference in height was very apparent. She wasn’t short for her age, at least not by Westerosi standards, but the knights were all grown men or close to it. The three of them jockeyed for position, trying to be the first to approach the mystery knight. It was almost comical.

“I need not your wealth nor your favour,” she announced, holding up a hand, “I ask only that you teach your squires honor, not through words but through actions. Live your lives with integrity and compassion, pass that onwards, and our debt is settled.”

The knights replied with a chorus of acknowledgement, relief evident in their voices. Jane doubted they’d hold to their word despite the show.

Lyanna nodded and walked away. Then, as if as an afterthought, she turned back and in something close to her normal voice added, “Oh, by the way, you got beat by a girl.”

Well, when she was fourteen, she probably wouldn’t have been able to resist that urge either.

* * *

Jane had expected people to talk about the mystery knight. She had not expected the shitstorm of epic proportions that followed.

The king was livid. Somehow the Knight of the Laughing Tree had become his personal enemy, and he ranted at length half-coherently about how the mystery knight was a deceiver, a criminal, a coward and an enemy of the state. The leaps of logic were incredible, but not surprising from a man that was literally insane. Fortunately, he tired quickly, and his spiel was fiery but brief. At the end, he urged knights to challenge the mystery knight, offering great but unspecific rewards.

From her seating position, Jane couldn’t see Lyanna, but half the crowd seemed disturbed by the rant, so even if she had reacted, it wouldn’t be out of place.

Then one of the knights, Ser Richard Lonmouth, stood and proclaimed that he would challenge and unmask the mystery knight. That seemed to please both the King and the crowd- the flowery language he used probably helped.

It was bad, but not as bad as what happened next.

Not to be outdone, Robert Baratheon did the same. He was already drunk as hell, and his speech wasn’t a tenth as eloquent as Ser Richard’s. Robert was more of a concern, because while he might have been an impulsive barbarian, he wasn’t an idiot, and he already had his eye on both her and Lyanna.

So that was how she found herself crashing through the forest with Lyanna in the middle of the night, humping a beat up wooden shield on an improvised shoulder strap. She’d already surreptitiously returned the rest of the armor pieces, but that was the one incriminating piece that had to go away, right the fuck now.

“Did you ever handle this without gloves?” Jane asked, then realized what a stupid question it was. “Wait, nevermind.”

“What?” Lyanna asked, skittishly. The girl was trying to be brave, but the King’s rant and the proclamations from Robert and Ser Richard had left her shaken. If she was found, there would be dire consequences for her and her house.

If it came down to it, she’d put a bullet in anyone who tried to harm Lyanna, but she’d rather not start a war, at least not before the half-year mark.

“Fingerprints,” she explained. “They’re unique to each person, and someone could match them to you. But I wouldn’t worry about it, since this world is a few hundred years from any sort of workable forensic science.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Hey. It’ll be fine,” Jane assured her, offering a smile that was barely visible in the moonlight. “This is the last thing that can link the mystery knight back to you, and we’re fucking burying it.”

“What if they recognize my voice?” she asked, still concerned. “I turned off the modulator. I made my voice higher than normal, but…”

“For once, sexism works against you. Even if they believe a girl actually beat them, they won’t admit…” She trailed off, straining to hear again something she thought she heard. Footsteps. Behind them, a long ways off, probably inaudible to anyone with baseline ears. But definitely there.

“What is it?” Lyanna asked, stopping.

“We’re being followed,” she told the girl, gently nudging her forward.

“Fuck!”

“Keep heading forward, and don’t worry about making noise,” Jane ordered. “I’m going to disappear for a bit, but I’ll be right behind you.”

She gulped, but kept her brave face on. “Okay.”

Jane clapped her on the shoulder, then slinked away into the bushes. It was dark enough that her tactical cloak was more effort than it would be worth- anyone without implants or night-vision gear wouldn’t be able to make her out past a few metres. She adjusted the strap of the shield. Fortunately, they’d wrapped it in cloth, so it wouldn’t bang around too much.

After doubling back for maybe forty or fifty metres, she paused to listen. Yes, there was definitely someone coming, straight toward Lyanna. One person, no armor. Not trying to make a racket, but either not stealthy or not trying.

She reached under her dress- the breakaway seam had already torn- and drew her pistol. With a flick of her thumb, she powered it up and synced it to her implants.

Then, she waited. Her quarry did exactly as she expected, ignoring her and continuing past in pursuit of Lyanna. That made things easy. She stood and crept up behind the stranger, gun up and ready. Her last step was deliberately noisy as she grabbed them and slammed them against a tree.

“Don’t fucking move.” She pressed the muzzle of her pistol to the back of their head. “I’m going to explain this as simply as possible. I squeeze my finger, your head explodes.”

“So,” Prince Rhaegar Targaryen said slowly, “It’s true, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did Robert Baratheon see Jane Shepard and she not see him? Really it’s because I hadn’t planned on this but it’s not as unreasonable as it sounds. She only kind of knows what he looks like and might not have gotten a good look, or one with enough contextual clues. Meanwhile, Robert didn’t have to identify her, just see a pretty face.


	4. Unfairy Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a lot of fun to write. The ball is starting to roll; I figure one or two more chapters before the proverbial stuff really hits the fan.
> 
> There is a lot of swearing in this chapter. It makes sense in context.
> 
> The song reference this time is Battle Beast - Unfairy Tales. To be honest, I choose these mostly for the titles, not the content.

Jane Shepard jabbed the pistol into the Prince’s head a little harder. “What’s true?”

“Lord Stark’s fallen star, of course,” Rhaegar answered, an unsettling smile on his face. “Who else would command such magics? Who else could be so bold as to assault the Prince himself?”

She laughed, with what she hoped was an incredulous look on her face. “What makes you think Lord Stark has a fallen star?”

“I have heard rumours,” he replied. “The Master of Whispers has little birds across the Seven Kingdoms, and they tweeted of the strange new woman in the North. Even still, I had dismissed the stories as nought but a mummer’s farce until today.”

A crashing noise came from the bush beside her. She roughly twisted the Prince around so he was between her and the noise. A moment later, Lyanna came bounding out of the bush. Shock crossed her expression when she realized what was happening. “Jane! What are- is that Prince Rhaegar?”

“It is indeed, Lady Lyanna,” the man replied politely.

 _God damn it_. It would have been much easier if Lyanna hadn’t shown her face. She could have talked her way out, or at least set the sights firmly on herself. Now the Prince knew they were connected.

“I am not your enemy, Lady Jeyne,” Rhaegar said quickly. “I simply wish to speak with you. Though I would have much preferred different circumstances.”

“Lyanna, search him,” she ordered.

The girl tapped her fingers together awkwardly. “Um…”

Right. She probably didn’t even know what that meant. “Just take his sword, keep it out of his reach.”

“Okay.” Lyanna did as she was bidden, unstrapping Rhaegar’s sword belt and stepping back once it was in her hands. “I’m sorry, my prince.”

Jane flipped the prince around so they were face-to-face, pushed him back a pace, and leaned against a tree. She dropped arm, but kept her pistol in hand. “Let’s talk, then.”

Rhaegar motioned to the weapon. “The thing in your hand, that’s the source of your power?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she answered ambiguously. “I thought you Westerosi didn’t believe in magic?”

“You’re right, for the most part. But my family hails from Old Valyria, a land of magic before the Doom. We once rode dragons, and one day we shall ride dragons once more,” he replied. Having a gun put to his head didn’t seem to disturb the man too much. She respected that, and wondered how much of that came from having a madman for a father. “Do they have dragons where you come from?”

She pondered that for a moment. “Kind of. They’re not the same as the ones you have.”

“I wonder…”

“What are you wondering?” Lyanna asked.

“I have heard you arrived in a boat that travelled among the stars. Is that true?” he asked.

“Maybe.” She shrugged. Lyanna’s eyes flicking up might have given it away.

“Then these dragons, they are what pulls your boat- or would it be a carriage- across the stars?”

She burst out laughing, and shook her head. “Way off, Ray.”

“Then how does it move? Surely sails or oars would be useless.” He shook his head. “I suppose that’s a question for another time. I am simply curious, that is all. Where _do_ you come from, Lady Jeyne?”

“Ulthos,” she answered flatly.

He smirked. A thin smirk, but an unmistakable one. “I think not.”

“You know, this is an awfully one-sided discussion,” she diverted, motioning slightly with her pistol. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Ray. You’re not trying to run away or cut my head off, which means you want something. What is it?”

“You have seen my father’s madness, have you not?”

She nodded. “You’d have to be pretty fucking blind to miss that.”

“It is worse than it appears. Every day he grows more unstable and more paranoid. He grows obsessed with fire, and abusive to the queen- my mother,” he explained gravely. “For many years, the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister, kept the realm together despite his madness. But now my father believes the Hand is conspiring against him, and is trying to push him out. I fear it will come to war.”

“And that’s bad, I know. But I don’t see what I have to do with this.”

He smirked again. “Did you not just threaten to explode my head with a snap of your fingers? I do not know the extent of your power, but I know it must be vast. Can you not stop my father? Stop this war before it begins?”

“Let’s assume that I _can_ help you. Let’s assume that I _do_. Then what?” She sighed. “As I understand it, this Targaryen madness is genetic. How can you be so sure you won’t turn out like your dad?”

“I cannot, not truly. But surely it is better than doing nothing.” He spoke quickly, enthusiastically. Not a great sign. “The people suffer at the hands of my father, and if there is a war, it will be even worse. At the worst, we can avoid that, and gain a few years of just rule.”

“The temptation is there. Believe me, the shit I’ve seen on your world…” She trailed off. “The answer’s still no. I’m not going to be single-handedly responsible for starting a fucking coup here.”

“But-“

“I am not a god. I am not a queen. Even if I _wanted_ to help you, there are people _I_ have to answer to.” Hell, what she’d pulled on Tuchanka for Wrex was bending the rules. “There’s a good reason for it. We’ve been here before, Ray. Different planet, different people, same idea. Swap the bad king for the good king. It’s worked a few times, but sometimes we end up back where we started, and sometimes everyone ends up worse off. I can’t be the one to make that decision.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re sworn to a liege lord, then?”

“Not exactly. We’ve kind of moved beyond swearing to _people_. But if it makes it easier for you to think of it that way, sure.”

“Very interesting. Is it Ser Jeyne, then?”

She gave him another shrug. “If you like.”

“Most of the galaxy calls her Commander Shepard,” Lyanna corrected. “Sorry.”

“Shepherd?” he asked, confused.

Jane explained. “It’s my family name. Probably sounds ignoble as all hell here, but it’s got a long, storied history where I come from.”

“Then may I speak to the ones you are sworn to?”

“Sure. You can talk to them.” It was technically the truth. Since contact was already made, they’d likely send envoys to all the rulers of the nations on this world, and the Crown Prince would be there.

His eyes brightened. “Truly?”

She nodded. “Truly.”

“There’s something you’re not letting on,” Rhaegar realized. He was sharp, she’d give him that. “It’s time, isn’t it? It takes a raven days to cross Westeros. A message by horse or by ship would take even longer. How long would it take for a message to reach your liege?”

Jane chewed her lip. She’d thought about this before- if she pointed a big laser at the nearest system that might be inhabited… “With what I have to work with right now, years to decades.”

“ _Decades_?” the prince asked, mouth agape. “Even Sothyros is not so far away by ship!”

“Space is _really_ big. We typically measure distances in _light-years_.”

“As in-”

“The distance light travels in one year,” Lyanna finished.

“Light has a speed?” Rhaegar asked, now completely befuckled. He’d taken everything else in stride, and that was remarkable, but Jane wasn’t surprised that this was the thing that shut him down. Even an intelligent, well-educated medieval man wasn’t prepared to deal with space.

“Yeah, so the upshot is that you _will_ get to talk to the people you want to talk to. It’s just going to take so long that it probably won’t matter for your purposes. Now, they might come here first, but I have no idea when. Could be tomorrow, could be the next century.”

“Surely you didn’t spend ten years on a boat. Can you not make it faster?”

“Unless somebody can fix my FTL drive, no.”

His eyes lit up. “My father and his Hand control the Crown’s treasuries, but I have resources of my own. Tell me what you need and I will get it for you.”

“Great. I’ll need a level three qualified FTL tech, a new energizer constriction array, and five hundred metric tons of palladium,” she deadpanned. Seeing the blank look on Rhaegar’s face, she added, “Your world’s a thousand years away from building starships. Even with specific guidance, we’ll both be dead long before that happens.”

“The Maesters of the Citadel,” he suggested, grasping at straws. “They are neutral, but I have connections with them. They are-”

“-surpassed in scientific knowledge by the esteemed ranks of interns, boots and high school dropouts,” she finished. “Ray, there’s nothing you can do to help me, and nothing I can do to help you.”

“When war comes to the Seven Kingdoms, you will regret this,” Rhaegar warned sternly, though he seemed more resigned than angry.

“Maybe.” Jane shrugged and holstered her pistol. She nodded to Lyanna, who tossed the prince back his sword and scabbard. “We’ll see.”

“Very well.” He caught his weapon and belted it back on. “I do wonder what you were doing in the woods in the dead of night.”

Still keeping one hand free, she reached over her shoulder and pulled the shield off her back, then tossed it over. “I was gonna keep it, maybe hang it on a wall somewhere, but Lyanna here convinced me it was better off at the bottom of a river. But… well, maybe you didn’t find the mystery knight, but at least you found his shield.”

Prince Rhaegar turned it over in his hands, then slung it and nodded at her. “Very well. Until we meet again, Ser Laughing Tree.”

* * *

The next morning, Lyanna was still a ball of anxiety. If anything, she was even worse. Jane couldn’t blame the girl. The confrontation with Prince Treason hadn’t done her any favours. Breakfast was a silent, subdued affair. Benjen and Ned had realized that Lyanna was upset and kept their distance, though neither of them knew the real reason. Brandon, thankfully, had disappeared early, before they had woken.

“What if he betrays us?” Lyanna asked quietly, after her brothers had left.

“He won’t,” Jane answered firmly. “He may have found the mystery knight, but he also talked treason. We both have dirt on each other. If he tries to stab us in the back, we cut his throat.”

Lyanna shook her head. “Surely no one will believe the word of a bastard or even a highborn lady over the prince.”

“Maybe. But he can’t take that risk, not with his father’s sights on him,” she explained. “Besides, I recorded the whole thing.”

“You recorded it?” the girl asked, surprised.

She smirked. “Of course I recorded it. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

“What’s a rodeo? Is it like a tourney?” Lyanna asked.

Once again, Jane was reminded that Westeros was for all intents and purposes an alien planet, despite the human population and Lyanna’s rapidly increasing use of Terran expressions.

“Yeah, kind of,” she dismissed. “Okay, look. Rhaegar thinks it was me, not you. He wasn’t at your joust, so he wouldn’t have seen me in the stands. He can’t say shit, and everyone else is still looking for the _man_ who was the mystery knight. So just act natural, and nobody will suspect a thing.”

“Act natural?”

“Act natural,” she repeated. “You may still be riding yesterday’s adrenaline high, but as far as everyone else knows, you spent the day puking your guts out. Look a little contrite, don’t be excited, and if you feel too happy, just think about Robert Baratheon.”

“Fuck yourself!” There was venom in her words, but misery beneath them.

Instantly, Jane regretted what she had said. She placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Okay, maybe not. Look, while you’re watching the jousts, I’ll go talk to him. I’m tired of pissing around, and I’ve got nothing better to do today anyway.”

“How are you going to convince him?”

She answered vaguely, “I have a way with words.”

“You’re not going to wave your-”

“Probably not. No guarantees.” She smiled. “I know what I’m doing, and I’ll take care of it. You just need to sit back, relax, and watch your brother kick the shit out of a bunch of knights. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Great. I’ll see you tonight.”

With that, they went their separate ways. Lyanna rushed off to join her brothers, and Jane headed over to the Baratheon camp in search of Lord Robert.

She found him in exactly the same place she had last time, quaffing ale right beside its source. This time, there was a blonde girl on his lap. When he saw her approach, he quickly pushed the girl off, though not before grabbing a handful of her ass.

“Lord Robert Baratheon,” Jane called. Before he could answer, she took a seat across from him, grabbed a tankard, and tossed it back. It was _foul_ , bad even for the piss this world called beer. “Can I call you Robert?”

Robert smirked. There was a glint in his eyes, one she’d seen many times before. “A lady as fair as you may call me whatever she wishes.”

“Great, Bob it is.” She refilled her tankard and sucked it dry. As much as she’d rather be drunk for this, she’d probably have to drink the entire cask to get the desired effect. She was mostly drinking for show. “We need to talk about Lyanna.”

That brought a smile to Robert’s face, almost genuine enough to make her feel bad about what she was about to do. Well, no. Not really. “Ah, Lyanna. My true love. The wild wolf, a winter’s rose, the most beautiful lady I have ever laid eyes on. Well, perhaps-”

“You know she fucking hates you, right?” Jane interrupted. She swung one leg up onto the table, idly filling her tankard yet again and drinking half of it. “I’m talking deep, complete, every-fiber-of-your-being _loathing_. You? She does _not_ like you.”

“Watch your tongue, wench!” Robert snapped. “You could not possibly know Lady Lyanna’s-”

She slammed her tankard down on Robert’s fingers, hard enough to pin them, but not hard enough to break anything. A grimace crossed the man’s face, but he refused to cry out. “Call me wench again and I’ll break your fucking fingers, one by fucking one.”

Pain turned to rage. “You would dare threaten the Lord of Storm’s End?”

“It’s not a threat, just a statement of fact,” she replied calmly, picking up the tankard and finishing it. “As is the fact that Lyanna hates you. What Ned told you is true. I _am_ a noble lady- of sorts- from a house Lord Starks wants an alliance with. But I _am_ also Lyanna’s handmaiden, and have been for months now. She shares things with me that she hasn’t shared with anyone else.”

Robert rubbed his hand. He raised an eyebrow. “A bed, perhaps?”

It took every gram of self-control she had to not pull out her knife and pin Robert’s hand to the table then and there. It would be satisfying. Instead, she slammed it into the table a centimeter away, burying it halfway in the wood. “Suggest _that_ again, and I _will_ put it through your fucking hand. Maybe cut a couple tendons while I’m at it. You’ll never hold a sword again, hell, you won’t even be able to jerk off right.”

Robert gulped. That one might have been more for her personal satisfaction, but it had the right effect.

She yanked the knife out and sheathed it. “Now, where were we? Right. I may not have a degree in English lit, but I’m pretty fucking sure hate is the _opposite_ of love. So tell me how your _true love_ is supposed to work.”

“Lady Lyanna will grow fond of me, as many ladies have grown fond of their lords.” There was doubt in his voice. She was getting through.

“Have you ever been married before, Bob?” Jane asked. She didn’t wait for an answer- she already knew. She idly refilled her tankard as she talked. “Engaged? Long-term, serious relationship? Anything more than a whore’s cunt, or fucking your already-betrothed cousin behind the stables?”

“She was-”

“Spare me the details, I don’t give a shit about your cousin. Point is, it doesn’t fucking work that way, Bob. No amount of feasts or ceremonies or castles or pied fucking pipers is going to turn hate into love,” she continued, pausing to chug her disgusting beer. “There are plenty of lords and ladies that went in indifferent and grew to tolerate each other. That’s not the same as love. That’s- well, fucked up, is what it is- but at best it’s pragmatism. And those are relationships that started with dislike at worst, not loathing, and didn’t involve two of the most obstinate fucking people I’ve ever met.”

“I’ll-”

“What the fuck do you think your married life is going to be, Bob?” Jane asked rhetorically. She was closing for the kill now. “She’s gonna be the fine and elegant lady of the castle, carry all your little babies? They call her the she-wolf for a reason. She’d sooner stick a fucking dagger in your back. She’ll marry you, all right, and then fucking murder you in your sleep.”

“If this were true, surely Lord Stark or Ned would have told me.” He continued to spout words, but he’d lost the argument, not just with her but within himself.

“Open your fucking eyes, Bob. You know Ned, better than I do. You know his father. You know what the Starks are like,” she implored. “Honor before reason. Rick would burn Winterfell to the ground before he went back on a deal. Ned loves you like a brother, but the Stark name and its honor means a lot to him, so he’ll sit on his hands, doing nothing, like a fucking coward.”

“What would you have me do, then?”

“Call it off,” she answered. “You’re young, popular, and you hold Storm’s End. There will be plenty of offers. Yeah, it’ll look bad, but soon enough the realm will be laser-focused on your batshit king’s latest decree anyway. I don’t think anyone’s gonna give all that many fucks about Storm’s End when Airy Targs starts lighting people on fire and painting pentagrams on the walls with in his own blood.”

He quaffed his ale, but didn’t answer, still in thought. She finished her own tankard as she waited.

“Tell you what, I’ll sweeten the deal.” She saw the lust in his eyes and quickly added, “I’ll tell you who the Knight of the Laughing Tree was.”

He was probably disappointed that it wasn’t sex, but his curiosity got the best of him. “Fine. Deal.”

Jane spread her arms wide and grinned. “You’re looking at her.”

Robert nearly spat out his ale. “You?”

“Everyone’s gone mad looking for the _man_ who was the mystery knight. Makes it real easy to miss her, doesn’t it?” Jane tossed the tankard away and stood. “Believe it or not, that’s up to you. In the meantime, you have some letters to write.”

She didn’t wait for a response, instead taking one of the casks in one arm and walking away with it.

* * *

Brandon was about to face Prince Rhaegar in the lists, and yet Ned Stark’s mind was elsewhere.

Robert no longer seemed to be infatuated with Lyanna at all. He’d stopped talking about her, stopped mentioning her here and there, and even muttered something about breaking off the betrothal. Something had happened, Ned was sure of it, but he had no idea _what_. Robert had refused to say, no matter what he tried to appeal to.

Instead, Robert seemed even more interested in Lady Jane. He suspected the woman had something to do with it, but had not worked up the courage to ask her. It was likely she wouldn’t answer anyway, or give an answer that only raised further questions.

Ned had to admit, reluctantly, that Lyanna, Benjen, and Lady Jane might have been right about Robert all along. He spoke earnestly of true love yet moved on so quickly to lusting after another woman.

It pained him to think of his friend that way.

“Ned, wake up, Brandon’s about to ride!” Lyanna shouted. He winced. She was loud, and right in her ear.

He cheered for Brandon, along with his family and the Northmen with them, but there were many more cheers for Rhaegar. He didn’t fault them. He was the prince, after all, and a very popular prince in the South.

It was even odds. Prince Rhaegar was very good. He had never won a tourney before, but had come very close, losing to Arthur Dayne of Starfall once, defeating him the next time around, and then losing to Ser Barristan the Bold himself. This tourney, he had defeated every challenger so far, including Bronze Yohn Royce just that morning.

Brandon Stark did not have the reputation of Prince Rhaegar, but Ned knew he was an excellent horseman and skilled jouster. He would be a formidable opponent, more formidable than the Prince would expect, or so Ned hoped.

The Prince and the Northman took their positions at the opposite ends of the tilt. Prince Rhaegar wore much more elaborate armor than Brandon, encrusted with jewels and deeply enameled. Brandon’s armor was simple, like they preferred in the North, sturdy grey plate painted with the direwolf of their house. Either was better armored than Lyanna had been when she competed. He had no idea where she had gotten all those mismatched pieces, and thanked the Old Gods that she had not been hurt. Lady Jane would tell him jousting was acceptable for a young lady as it was for a man, but he was not so convinced.

Ned muttered another prayer to the old gods as the jousters raced toward each other.

Lance shattered against shield with a resounding crash, and it looked like a draw and they would have to go again, but then, as if time itself had slowed, one of the riders tumbled to the ground.

The crowd erupted into applause as Prince Rhaegar paraded victoriously to the end of the tilt. It was a fair and honorable match, but Ned couldn’t help but be disappointed. He had sincerely hoped that his brother would be the one to unhorse the Prince.

As Brandon trundled off the field in defeat, Ned’s thoughts wandered back to Robert, Lyanna, and the woman from the stars.

* * *

Not only had Prince Rhaegar defeated Brandon Stark, he also prevailed against four knights of the Kingsguard, including the famed Ser Barristan Selmy.

That had surprised Jane Shepard.

For a knight, Barristan was old, having fought in a civil war for the _previous_ king. His claim to fame, though, was rescuing King Whackjob when he had been taken as a hostage a few years previous, in an op that was in her mind pretty fucking ninja. That was the action that had earned him the epithet Barristan The Bold.

It was a shame she hadn’t had the chance to sit down with Barristan. Some other time, perhaps.

Barristan was a _legend_ among the locals, and had already defeated Rhaegar in a previous tourney, so everyone’s bets had been on him. It had surprised everyone- probably even Rhaegar himself- when he knocked the veteran knight off his horse on the third try.

What happened at the victory dinner- or whatever they called it- surprised her even more.

The winner of the tourney got to crown a woman as the “queen of love and beauty”, a tradition she understood at an intellectual level but didn’t really get. Usually it was a woman the knight loved or was attempting to court, with rare exceptions where the knight might crown a family member like his mother or sister. In this case, the obvious choice was Elia Martell, as Queen Rhaella was not at the tourney.

Prince Rhaegar rode straight past his wife, halted in front of Lyanna, and gently placed a crown of blue flowers in her lap.

The crowd was deathly silent. She didn’t need to deeply understand Westerosi culture to realize that the gesture was a massive _go fuck yourself_ from the Prince to his wife. It was grossly inappropriate, Rhaegar was married, and as far as most of the audience knew, Lyanna betrothed.

Under her breath, Jane Shepard muttered, “Rhaegar, you dumb motherfucker…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've mentioned this before in a comment response, but this Shepard is paragade in the sense of being paragon to a point. Once past that point, all bets are off. In this case, while she's angry at and disgusted by Robert, what she's doing is more an act to put him badly off balance. She was never really going to start slicing tendons out, she just needed to sound as unladylike as possible.
> 
> I did briefly toy with the idea of Rhaegar naming Shepard as the Queen of Love and Beauty. But even if Rhaegar thought it was Shepard, it would have raised a lot of questions and cast a lot of eyes on her, which isn't what Rhaegar wants.


	5. Romanticide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short kind of interlude chapter. The calm before the storm, I suppose. It’s definitely not up to the previous chapters in terms of length or quality, but recent events have put me really off balance.

They’d scarcely returned to Winterfell when the first letters arrived, from Rhaegar and Robert. The addressing had been vague, but the only other Jeyne or Jane within a hundred kilometer radius was a baker’s daughter, so Lord Rickard and his Maester figured correctly that they had to be for her.

She still found the raven mail system amusing. On Earth they’d used homing pigeons for a similar purpose, and she briefly wondered if anyone had tried ravens instead. She couldn’t find anything in the databases of her omni-tool or the shuttle’s databanks, so further investigation would have to wait.

To decide on which one to open first, she flipped a coin. Starship for Rhaegar, Alliance crest for Robert. Idly, she wondered why the fuck she had a PCU Orizaba challenge coin in her pocket. It was probably from her mother, but they’d barely spoken since, well, since…

The coin landed with the starship facing up. Rhaegar it was.

The prince had a fine, elegant hand, which gave her a headache to read. She could manage, but it was far from the crisp fonts of a computerized readout or the simple handwriting she’d learned in school. The prose, too, was flowery, a world away from the sterile (or at least deadpan) reports that generally crossed her desk.

The letter was pretty much what she expected. He urged her to reconsider his decision, pointing out what a terrible king his father was, and hastily adding that they should correspond even if she wasn’t ready to throw her weight behind his cause. It was worded carefully, she realized, with vague language and euphemisms used to suggest things without actually saying them. That made sense. She’d heard birds could be intercepted, and without computers or even advanced math, only simple and easily breakable ciphers would be available.

Well, a letter wouldn’t change her mind. She sighed, tossed it aside, and moved on to the next letter. She had a pretty good idea how this one would read.

This latter lacked the same elegance. Even Robert’s handwriting was more brutish than Rhaegar’s. Still, there was an impression of honesty to it that she could respect. Sure enough, it opened with an incredibly clumsy attempt at complimenting her, went straight to the subject of marriage, and then hastily extolled the virtues of Storm’s End, of which there were apparently few.

She laughed, crumpled it up, and threw it into the fireplace.

* * *

As it turned out, she would throw out _many_ letters over the next weeks. She read each one, or at least skimmed it, scanning most of them for posterity, and burned the physical letters.

Part of her regretted getting involved at all. If she had known she was going to be here for the long haul, she would have scrapped the shuttle and played witch in the woods. Or, that was what she told herself, anyway. The manuals pushed the seclusion strategy over alternatives, but she wasn’t sure she would have been able to resist making contact with the locals.

But that ship had sailed anyway. She was already not only known to the locals but involved in their affairs. She was in tight with a local warlord, playing the cool aunt to his daughter, and had caught the attention of another young lord and the crown prince of the realm.

Rick had the patience of a saint and the generosity of one, too, but she knew she’d have to give him something soon, especially if she started asking for raw materials to fab things with. She decided that if Rickard asked, she’d give him some agricultural technology. A seed drill or a better plow, probably. She remembered those from high school history, and a quick query confirmed that the shuttle had data on both. It would have some undesired side effects, probably, but certainly less impact than, say, giving them guns. She’d already inadvertently improved sanitation at Winterfell.

Lyanna, on the other hand, wasn’t throwing out her letters. Jane suspected from the beginning Rhaegar was sending her letters as well, and Benjen’s slip of the tongue confirmed it. He also implied that she was quite taken with the noble prince. One day, over breakfast, Jane broached the subject.

“You’ve been getting letters from Prince Rhaegar.” It was a statement of fact, not a question. In fact, she’d already snuck into the rookery, scanned a sealed letter, and confirmed it.

To her credit, Lyanna stood her ground. “Maybe. What’s it matter?”

“Rhaegar is half your age again and married with children,”

“But-”

“Here’s where you say nobody understands you like he does.” Seeing the surprised expression on Lyanna’s face, she added, “I was a teenager once, too. I crushed on celebrities and masturbated to them just like you are right now.”

“I’m not!”

“I didn’t literally mean _in this moment_. Someone would have noticed,” Jane clarified jokingly. “Maybe, just maybe, it’s fairy-tale true love and you’ll get married and live happily ever after. I’ve seen bigger age gaps- usually between species, but still- and married with kids is basically no object. But most likely, you’re swooning-”

“I don’t swoon.”

“Lusting for, whatever. You’re hitting that age where hormones run rampant and that drive to date and kiss and fuck is not only coming awake but going crazy. You see Rhaegar, he’s nice looking and he gives you some flowers and now you’ve got these new feelings and no idea how to deal with them,” Jane explained. She wasn’t exactly a guidance counselor- Kelly or even Chakwas would have done a better job- but she was all there was out here. “And this bullshit with Robert sure as hell isn’t helping things, either.”

“We’re not talking about getting married, you know,” Lyanna admitted. “Just some stuff about life in Winterfell, the state of the realm, and how to keep your hair looking nice. I thought you said I should make friends in high places?”

“Yeah, I did,” Jane admitted. “I’m not saying you should hide in a tower. I’m just saying, be careful. Be skeptical. Most likely, and I mean most likely by _far_ , this is just a little bit of weirdness that’ll pass. And above all, don’t let him use you. Usually it’s not obvious until it’s too late.”

* * *

Rickard turned the letter over in his hands and sighed.

It was- well, it should have been good news. If it had involved anyone else, it would be good news. But this particular time, it was a mess. Robert Baratheon was making preparations for his wedding to Lyanna Stark, and wished to set a date.

As was his right. The Lord Baratheon had never truly broken the betrothal, nor had he. The letters back and forth had simply stopped. He still sent a few to Lady Jane, and in truth Rickard had expected her to discuss marriage, but she’d simply laughed and admitted that she burned all the letters.

In truth, he was torn. It was a good marriage for both houses. He had done his duty, his mother and his father and their brothers and sisters generations back, and his sons would as well. But Lyanna was against it, and somehow, that had more weight than it should have. The strange woman’s strange words echoed at the back of his head. _All sentients_ \- whatever that meant- _have the right to self-determine. Lyanna is her own person and should make her own choice. And jesus, Rick, she’s fourteen. Most of the dads I’ve met don’t even want their daughters to_ date _at fourteen._

He briefly considered showing Lady Jane the letter, asking her to deliver the news. Perhaps she could explain, perhaps Lyanna would take it better- but no, he was her father. He would tell her.

It was his duty.

* * *

Jane had been repeatedly told that food was a simple affair in the north. In the south, meals at a noble’s table would have a dozen courses, and a feast many times that. She’s experienced the inane extravagance briefly at Harrenhal, but even the “simple” meals of the northern nobility were far more than the vaguely food like mass on a tray she was used to from the Navy.

Today’s dinner had begun with a heavy brown bread spread thick with butter, served with a thick soup that almost seemed like potato soup, except nobody in Winterfell had any idea what a potato was. The first course tonight was roast duck, or something close enough to duck to pass, glazed and roasted brown and served in generous portions.

At the head of the table, Lord Stark sat eating quietly, deep in thought. An observant viewer who knew the man well would realize he had something on his mind. For most of the dinner, nobody said anything, sticking to the usually smalltalk about distant cousins and how the castle was doing.

“Is there something on your mind, father?” Ned finally asked, after the second course had been served. Of the children, he had always been the most perceptive.

He hesitated before putting down his cutlery. “I suppose there is. I have news for Lyanna.”

“Here we go,” Jane muttered under her breath. Beside her, Ned and Benjen put down their forks and braced, while Brandon continued eating, unperturbed.

“A letter arrived from Storm’s End,” Rickard explained flatly “Lord Robert wishes to set a date for the wedding.”

“No…” the girl muttered.

“Your betrothal was never formally rescinded. It seems Lord Robert has changed his mind. I have no reason to object…”

“I won’t,” Lyanna replied quietly, defiantly.

“Lya-”

“I won’t!” she shouted, tossing her fork down with such force that it dented her metal plate. She stood abruptly, kicked away the stool she’d been sitting on a moment earlier, and stormed out of the hall. Lord Rickard left a moment later, mumbling something about no longer feeling hungry.

“That went well,” Jane quipped, dropping her fork across her plate before standing and leaving. That was pretty much the end of dinner- the Stark children followed suit quickly.

* * *

By the time Winterfell awoke the next morning, Lyanna was gone.

The castle went crazy. Lord Rickard tried to appear lordly as he ordered the guards and castle staff to search for the girl, but she could tell he was on the verge of breaking. Benjen and Ned were visibly upset, while Brandon covered it up with rage, nearly punching a hole in the wall. The castle’s denizens searched frantically, tense and unnerved.

Jane quietly slipped out, sat on the battlements, and waited. They could tear apart the castle all they wanted- they’d never find the girl. No, she’d presumably grabbed her pack and a horse and raced south. That’s what she would have done, had their places been reversed.

It took about an hour for the Lord of Winterfell to reach the same conclusion.

“Lady Jane! Lyanna is gone!” Rickard shouted, voice full of anger. He stomped up the steps toward her, boots smashing against the stone.

 _No shit, Sherlock_. She didn’t voice those thoughts. Instead, she asked rhetorically, “What did you fucking expect, Rick?”

“I had expected her to do her duty and to honor her house,” Rickard snapped, barely restrained and barely below shouting. “I had expected her to do what she would have done had you not arrived from the sky- if that’s truly where you are from- and filled her head full of ridiculous ideas-”

“Yeah? What makes you so sure of that?” She turned and glared at him. “She’s rash, impulsive, and rebellious. She was _like that when I got here_. I didn’t make her that way. And she’s _fourteen_. Don’t tell me you made your best decisions when you were fourteen.”

“When I was fourteen, I sat the throne at Winterfell when my father was away,” he retorted sharply.

“Good for you. When I was fourteen, I got high and lit a farm on fire. Now I’m the galaxy’s poster girl,” she countered. Quietly, she added, “You think I made things worse, but that’s not what I was trying to do. I _tried_ to temper her impulses. I tried to convince her to wait, I tried to find another way. When I met your daughter, she was desperate. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that desperate people do stupid, dangerous things, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them.”

“You agree that what Lyanna has done is stupid, then?” There was a note of surprise in his voice, beneath the rage.

Jane nodded agreement. “Stupid, but understandable. Trapped between a rock and a hard place. She didn’t have a lot of options.”

“I would have written to Lord Robert,” Rickard admitted softly. “I would have abandoned the betrothal, even if it would shame our house. If that was truly what Lyanna wished.”

“Sure.”

“You’re not convinced.” The rage was gone now, replaced with sadness.

“I’m not the one you have to convince, Rick. I was never the one you had to convince.” She sighed. A gentle touch would be better, but she didn’t do gentle well. “I know you’re trying to do what you think is best for her. That’s all you’ve ever been doing. But all it ever looked to her was fuck you and all your dreams, get inside this cage. All she saw was you in the way of what she wanted, and you pushing her somewhere she never wanted to be. True or not, that’s what she saw.”

“You are trying to be reassuring, but your words are harsh.”

“Only telling it like it is, Rick,” she said bluntly. “Come on, let’s not fuck around. Every minute we wait is one minute she gets farther away. We’ll find your daughter, and you better have a hell of a speech ready by then.”


	6. Anywhere But Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ongoing situation in the world still has me spinning in circles. So this chapter may be a bit broken.
> 
> Time is kind of… compressed in this chapter. Also, the timing of events is a little bit different than the books. Brandon has not yet returned to Riverrun for his wedding here, and Ned is in Winterfell (I’m not sure if he was in Winterfell or the Eyrie at this exact point in time).

Impatiently, Lord Stark waited for the last member of their party.

He had little patience, having spent what seemed like half the morning explaining to Benjen why he could not come with him. Brandon understood, as unhappy as he clearly was, he had been the Stark in Winterfell before and understood his place. He said nothing. Ned would come with them. But Benjen had been close to Lyanna, and his wolf’s blood was not tempered with the wisdom of years.

The timing could hardly have been worse. Brandon was due to marry Catelyn Tully by the moon’s turn. No doubt preparations were already underway at Riverrun. Hopefully, they could find Lyanna in a few days and their plans would not be disrupted. But if they could not, if they needed to stay away longer, he would have to choose between postponing the wedding or sending Brandon alone, leaving Benjen as the Stark in Winterfell. Either would be a slight to the Tullys, and he was not sure which was worse.

In truth, he was not sure if he wanted Lady Jane with them. He still had his doubts, and perhaps more importantly, she was a poor rider, and would slow them. But the woman had insisted, adding that she had a bag of tricks that would help them. He assumed that was some sort of metaphor- the last thing they needed was a mummer right now.

She emerged from her space-boat still in her strange plate armor, strange boxes on her back and a bag slung across one shoulder. As she walked briskly toward them, she tossed small grey objects into the air. Each struggled for a moment before climbing into the sky, like a bird.

“What in the seven hells were those?” he asked, shock overtaking impatience for the moment.

“Quadcopter drones, flash-fabbed, flying a search pattern,” she explained quickly. “They’ll fly around and tell us if they see something that looks like Lyanna. That’s plan B.”

He didn’t understand half of that, but Ned apparently did, asking, “What’s plan A?”

Lady Jane didn’t answer, instead tapping her right hand against her left wrist in a careful pattern. Symbols and drawings he couldn’t make out appeared over her arm in orange light, moving and changing as she tapped.

Magic. Of course.

“Hmm…”

“What is it?”

“While you were having your shouting match with Benjen, I scanned all of Lyanna’s letters,” she answered. With a flick of her gloved hand, she made part of the images disappear, replaced with some that looked like letters. “I ran an automated search for anything that looks like an escape plan. And I found something.”

Reading Lyanna’s letters made sense, but it was astounding that her magic had done it so quickly. “What did you find?”

“ _We shall return, my laughing rose, to where it all began, let go of the past and begin anew_ ,” she quoted. She waved her hand and the letter increased in size- now clearly a letter, with lines highlighted in an eerie reddish glow. “Return to where it all began.”

“Winterfell?” Ned suggested.

She shook her head. “No. This is Rhaegar she’s corresponding with. And where did they meet?”

“Oh. Harrenhal.”

“That’s what I think, but I could be wrong.” Lady Jane furiously tapped against her wrist again. “I want to see if Rhaegar used that turn of phrase, or something close to it, before. And it looks like he did.”

“That was very quick,” he remarked, still trying and failing to truly grasp what was happening.

“It’s a much simpler search.” She held her arm out, the glowing images moving with it. Three pieces of letters appeared to be arrayed in front of him, and he could make out the words clearly. “What do you think, Rick?”

He leaned over, just enough to get a better look. Several sentences were highlighted, fringed in that strange red glow.

_And I shall never forget that forest night, north of gods eye, **where everything began**._

_I was born in castle rent by dragon’s fire, and perhaps it is fate that **we began the same way** , astride the castle my forefather burned so many years ago._

_We are both promised to another, but you are my true love and I yours, and I shall wait for you **where it all began** until death and beyond, where that knight of the laughing tree raised his shield._

“Harrenhal,” he agreed. “We ride at once.”

* * *

Lyanna was getting tired.

She had been riding hard for days, with hardly any sleep and mostly stolen tube-rats to eat. She could not relax or let her guard down. The road was dangerous for a girl on her own at the best of times, and doubtlessly her father’s men were already looking for her. She avoided castles and holdfasts, only risking one night in a decrepit inn when a storm had rendered the ground too muddy to continue. There was hot soup, but she’d barely slept, spending most of her time and energy fending off wandering hands with the point of a blade.

No matter what she did, though, she could not avoid the Neck. In theory, she _could_ head east and take a ship out of White Harbor, or head west and try to find a ferry across Blazewater Bay, but either options would add weeks to her journey.

There was a lot that could go wrong. Her father and his men were only a few days behind, at best. Doubtlessly, he had sent word ahead, and some of his bannermen were probably searching, too. Search parties she could avoid, but the stealthy crannogmen, not so much. There was always the possibility that she would run into bandits or highwaymen. And if Rhaegar had not received the raven she sent, all would be for nothing.

But she had no choice. She pushed forward, easing her mount into the black bog of the Neck, past the ruined stone towers of Moat Cailin. There was only one way through, at least only one that she knew of. In the Neck, the kingsroad narrowed to the so-called causeway, a narrow raised road along its eastern edge.

She thought she had picked a good time, and there was no traffic, at least none that she could see. But then, just as she had thought she was in the clear, a figure suddenly emerged from the rushes straight into her path. She yelped, jerking hard on the reins to avoid running over them.

“Lady Lyanna,” the crannogman greeted cordially, as if they had met peacefully on a spring day. “Or, shall I say, Ser Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

“Lord Howland. You startled me!”

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to,” he said, though she thought she saw a twinge of a smirk on his lips.

She glanced around. There may well have been others watching, but she couldn’t see them. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the very same question. It’s not every day that Lord Stark’s daughter passes through the Neck, on her own.” He picked up a satchel from the ground and held it out to her. “Here. For the road.”

“Just like that?” Lyanna asked as she took the offered package, briefly inspecting it before strapping it to her horse.

He nodded. “It’s not my place to stand in the way of fate, be it changed or not.”

“Oh.” That was weird. “I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

He took a long look at her, long enough that she was beginning to get creeped out. Then, he smiled a thin smile. “Perhaps you will.”

* * *

“You let her pass?”

“Rick.”

“You let her pass?!” Lord Rickard shouted. The unfortunate target of his wrath, Howland Reed, leaned instinctively away. They’d met in a chance encounter, and as soon as the crannogman mentioned what he had done, Rickard lost it.

“Rick.”

“You let my daughter pass, to a fate unknown, even though my letter had reached your lord father days before-”

“Rick!”

He turned and glared at her, rage in his eyes. “If I wanted your counsel, Lady Jane, I would-”

“Rick!” She stood her ground. Unlike the poor crannogman, she was not so easily cowed. “God damn it, what did you expect him to do, stab her with a frog spear?”

The response came between gritted teeth. “I would expect him to do his duty as a bannerman and obey my command, to stop and safely hold my daughter and not to let her pass to dangers unknown.”

“It was not my place to stand between Lyanna and her fate,” Howland excused. He turned to her. “Perhaps you may change it, Shepard. But not me.”

“Are you actually into that fate and destiny stuff, or do you just not want to admit she would have kicked your ass?” Jane asked. She added softly, “There’s no shame admitting it, kid.”

“Did she at least tell you where she was going?” Ned asked from behind them.

“The rose returns to where it began, where blue ice met silver fire,” Howland non-answered, speaking to nobody in particular. “The wolves shall not meet again until four have become two in a place where joy is promised but never delivered. There shall be a promise, though perhaps not the same promise.”

“You’re a strange kid, Howland. But thanks for the tip,” Jane commented, though something at the back of her mind prickled. She’d ponder the ominous words later. “Let it go, Rick. Don’t waste your time in a pointless argument. We can sort this out later.”

Lord Rickard hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Of course. My apologies, Lord Howland.”

* * *

“Do you still desire to sit as the Stark In Winterfell?” Brandon asked, flicking a scroll covered in figures aside. “Don’t. It’s boring as the seven hells.”

“We keep to the old gods, do we not?” Benjen asked rhetorically. Carefully, he picked up the scroll and set it aside. The day-to-day administration of the castle did seem terribly boring to him as well, but it was important, and their father would punish them severely if he found it had been neglected.

“That’s why the seven hells are boring,” his brother answered. “Gods, why couldn’t Lyanna just have married Robert? Then none of this mummery would have happened.”

“We both know why that couldn’t happen,” he said. Of his siblings, Brandon had been the least understanding. Perhaps it was because he was also getting married soon, or perhaps it was because they had never been as close as himself and Lyanna or even Ned and Lyanna.

“I am doing my duty for our House, and when the time comes, you will do yours,” Brandon stated.

“But you love Catelyn, and she you,” Benjen argued. “Lya hates Lord Robert. Perhaps someone else, she could reluctantly accept. But not him.”

“Does she not understand what the Baratheon alliance means to our House?” he continued. “The Stormlands-”

“Yes, I know, having the Stormlands on our side would be a major gain for House Stark, and for the North,” Benjen finished. “I don’t think she cares, or at least, she’s pretending not to. She’s been mad at us, and at father especially, for years?”

“Why?” the elder Stark asked bluntly. “He raised her the best he could, put a castle over her head. Tried to make her a lady, even if she’ll never be like those ones down south.”

“What did Lyanna want for her fourteenth nameday?”

“I don’t recall. I think it was a necklace.” He waved his hand dismissively.

“That’s what she told everyone. But she really wanted a set of armor like you had received at your fourteenth nameday,” Benjen corrected, then he had a sudden thought. “Are there are girls who want to be knights down south?”

“No, that’s ridiculous.” He laughed. “She may be our sister, Benjen, and I’d do anything for her, but she brings trouble wherever she goes.”

“Excuse me, my lords,” Maester Walys interrupted, pausing at the threshold with arms full of scrolls. “Today’s letters.”

“Are there any that we should attend to first?” Benjen inquired, eager to end the conversation. He motioned the man in.

He dropped the pile on the desk and sorted through it, producing one affixed with a yellow wax seal. “Perhaps this one. It is from Lord Whent.”

“Lord of Harrenhal,” Benjen added. “It could be news about Lyanna.”

Brandon nodded. “Very well. Let’s see it.”

* * *

“I suppose you’re here looking for that wild daughter of yours, aren’t you?”

Lord Walter Whent was about what Jane had expected, based on what she had heard. He might have thrown a hell of a party, but normally he was a dour, sour man pushing middle age. She supposed ruling a possibly-haunted castle that seemed to bring misfortune to its occupants would do that to a man.

Rickard answered simply. “Yes.”

Walter nodded, then pointed straight at her. “Who’s he? Did you bring a hedge knight to my court, Stark?”

For this occasion, she’d thrown a travelling cloak over her armor and shut down all the lighting. It was nondescript enough, perhaps a hedge knight or travelling sellsword. Up close, they’d realize something was up- in fact, they’d realize a _lot_ was up- but from a distance or in poor lighting, she was nobody.

“Father, I recognize her,” the teenaged girl at Lord Whent’s side said. Damn it, that was the dethroned Queen of Love and Beauty. Lord Whent’s daughter. “She’s a bastard from the North. Lady Lyanna’s handmaiden at the Tourney.”

Well, that game was up. She remarked, “I was actually more of Lyanna’s housecarl.”

“A traveler who came to Winterfell one day. It is a long story, one I shall tell you when time is not so short,” Rickard added quickly. “Suffice it to say, she formed a bond with Lyanna, and helped us trace her path.”

“I look forward to hearing that tale,” Lord Whent responded. There was a hint of a threat in his words. Of course there was. “I did not know you were coming south. I didn’t think you would trouble yourself to do so personally, anyway.”

“It is our way in the North.”

“Ah, the North. Of course. Well, your daughter was here, near a fortnight ago, or close to here, anyways. She stayed at the little inn by the crossroads, I think. But she’s not here anymore.” He motioned with his hand. “Long gone.”

Rickard, to his credit, took it in stride. “That is unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate is one word for it. Ran off with the Silver Prince, if you’d believe it.”

He feigned skepticism. “You believe Lyanna ran off with Prince Rhaegar?”

“If I believed it, I wouldn’t admit it,” the lord skirted. “One of my guardsmen swears, though, swears on his life and his honor and all that. Says he saw him ride in, pick her up and carry her away, kicking and screaming. Swears up and down our noble prince abducted a sweet girl in the dead of night.” He shrugged. “Of course, I’d hardly put any weight on the word of a lone guardsman.”

“Doubtlessly the ramblings of an idiot,” Rickard agreed. “Thank you for your time and your hospitality, Lord Whent. We shall by on our way by tomorrow.”

* * *

The chambers they’d been given for the night were cold, small and decrepit, worse than even some of the tiny holdfasts they’d stayed at. Someone had tried to make things a little nicer, tacking brightly colored tapetries to the walls and filling the room with puffy furniture, but nothing could hide the scars Harrenhal bore.

“What did you think, Lady Jane?” Lord Rickard asked.

“Walt’s got a bone to pick with the Targaryens for giving him a cursed shitshow of a castle,” she opined. “I think there was a guardsman, and he did see Lyanna and Rhaegar run off, but our man Walter spun that to sound as bad as it could.”

“You believe Prince Rhaegar did take her, then?” Rickard asked. He kept his voice level, but she could feel the anger and the fear in her voice.

“If you believe she was picked up and carried off, you’re a bigger dumbass than I thought.” She shook her head. “Coerced? Almost certainly. She’s still young enough to believe in fairy tales. Abducted? Almost certainly not. Ray’s way too smooth, he’s not the type to throw a bag over her head and drag her into the woods.”

Ned opened his mouth, then shut it. Whatever he was going to say, he thought better of it.

His father nodded gravely. “I must ride south, to King’s Landing-”

“And do what? Walk up to the Mad King and accuse his son of abducting your daughter?” she snapped. Unbelievable. These people and their fucking _honor_. “Rick, the King is nuts. You have _no_ idea what’s going to happen down there.”

“Son of the King or not, his actions dishonored and disrespected our House,” Rickard retorted. “I must confront the Prince if I can, confront his father if I cannot. I must demand justice. Even if it means my life.”

“It _will_ be your life, and probably a few others from your house, and I’m going to be the one who has to tell Lyanna how her dad died. You think you’re making a noble sacrifice, but it’s everyone around you who’s going to pay for it,” Jane shot back. “If you have to go to King’s Landing because it’s how your society works, fine, so be it. But do _not_ go in shooting from the hip with no plan and no way out if everything goes to shit.”

“Fine,” he replied reluctantly. “We will return to Riverrun. I trust Hoster Tully more than Walter Whent, and there are affairs I must get in order, as you have said. You have until we arrive to give me a plan.”


	7. Let Us Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t going to be but ended up a much more content heavy chapter. It’s been really hard to get back into the groove but I think this chapter is a lot more solid than the last few. Enjoy!

In the end, it would come down to information.

Running around shouting accusations would never find Lyanna. They needed to think like Rhaegar Targaryen. Where would he go? Where _could_ he go? What resources did he have, what connections did he have? Who would he be with, who would he talk to, who would know where he was going?

They didn’t need to know it all, not to start. One thing would lead to another. Find the right thread, and the whole thing would unravel. That was how Liara put it, wasn’t it? God, she could really use the archaeologist turned information broker right about now.

She hadn’t shared many of her thoughts, not yet. She’d wait until they were inside, warm and dry, first. In her armor, she was fine, but her companions must have been freezing.

By the time they reached Riverrun, it was pissing rain and the road was more mud than road. That was appropriate for their general mood, Jane figured. It had been a sullen, quiet trip. Neither Rick nor his son were very talkative at the best of times, and she figured they’d uttered maybe a dozen words in total during the trip.

When they reached the gates, a guardsman informed them Lord Tully was expecting them and waved them through, barely sparing her a glance.

She shared a look with Rickard. He didn’t seem to think too much of it, but something felt off with Riverrun as they handed over their horses and strode toward the keep. Did Lord Tully share some concern about the Lyanna situation, was he pissed about the last-minute changes to the wedding, or was it something else?

“Lord Tully,” Rickard greeted politely as they entered Riverrun’s great hall, dripping water onto the stone floor. The hall was larger, more elaborate, and better lit than either Winterfell or Harrenhal, though still too dark for her tastes.

“Lord Stark,” Hoster replied, voice neutral. He motioned toward Jane. “Is that her? Your lady from across the sea?”

 _Across the sea?_ Was that what Lord Stark had told him? She nodded. “I am.”

“Lord Stark was right, there is a resemblance. Hair of a Tully, eyes of a Lannister.” He squinted at her. “When I look closely, I see how much is wrong, but to the casual eye? It’s plausible enough. The way you dress, though, I’d taken you for a hedge knight. Tell, me, that sword on your hip, can you use it or is it for show?”

Really, it was both. She could use it in a pinch, but her real weapons wouldn’t be recognizable to the locals. “I can handle myself better than you might think.”

“We shall talk later, you and I. Lord Stark tells me there’s quite a story, but has yet to share it.” He turned to his fellow Lord. “I received a bird from your son.” 

“From Brandon?” Rickard asked.

“From Benjen,” he corrected, handing over a scroll with a broken seal. “It was written to me, but I suggest you read it.”

Rickard opened it and scanned the words, his expression turning more and more grim as he read. When he was done, he continued to grip the scroll, knuckles white.

“It’s bad news, isn’t it?” she prodded.

He nodded sharply. “Brandon learned that Prince Rhaegar abducted Lyanna. He is riding to King’s Landing to confront the king.”

She bit back a snide retort. “That’s not good.”

“No.”

“I doubt he will return. Neither of us should be under any illusions. Your son’s hot blood and the king’s temperament… it will not end well,” Lord Tully said bluntly. “That poses a problem, given our previous arrangements.”

“I am sorry-”

“I do not need an apology, Lord Stark. I need a marriage,” Hoster insisted, cutting him off. “Catelyn to your heir was the agreement. I am a reasonable man, and I am sorry about what will happen to your son, but I expect you to honor that agreement.”

Beside her, Ned gulped. Poor kid knew _exactly_ what was going to happen.

“Of course. Lady Catelyn shall marry my heir, whomever that may be. House Stark will honor the agreement,” Rickard replied firmly. “I know I am not in any position to make demands. But I ask, as one father to another, for your fastest horse, that I may save my son from his fate.”

Hoster tilted his head. “He must be through the Neck by now, and he’s a fast rider. Might even be closer to King’s Landing by now. I doubt you’ll beat him.”

“I must try.” The reply was intense, pausing on every word.

“Family, duty, honor,” the Riverlands lord echoed. “I understand. You shall have it.”

* * *

There was no stopping Rickard as he marched his way to the stables. He was the very definition of a man on a mission, and she had to jog to keep up with him. Nobody had ever augmented her height, and she was still a good twenty centimetres shorter than him.

A frightened stableboy held the reins of a powerful looking horse, ready and waiting for Lord Stark. Before he could get on, Jane grabbed him by the shoulder and roughly turned him around to face her.

“I am going alone,” Rickard insisted, trying to pull away. She kept her grip tight. “You are many things, Lady Jane, many amazing things, but you are a terrible rider.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” She loosened off, just a bit. “What are you going to do if Brandon gets there first?”

“I will return to Winterfell at once,” he snapped in reply.

She couldn’t hold back an ironic smile. “You’re many great things, Rick, but you’re a _terrible_ liar.”

“I will bring Brandon back, no matter what,” he insisted.

“You can’t take on the kingdom alone. Hell, I couldn’t take on the kingdom alone,” she insisted. “I’m not going to tell you not to try, because you will anyway. I’m telling you to think before you act. Have a fucking plan. Don’t get yourself killed. Don’t make me have to tell Lyanna how her dad died.”

“I will return.”

“Terrible liar, Rick.” She shook her head, but released her grip.

He grimaced. “If the worst comes to pass… I need you to ensure Ned reaches safety, in Winterfell or perhaps the Eyrie.”

She had a bad feeling she’d end up doing that anyway. “Sure.”

“Swear it to me, Lady Jane.”

“I, Jane Shepard, swear to escort your son Eddard Stark to safety,” she replied. “That good enough for you?”

“Sure.”

“Good luck,” Jane said as the man mounted his horse. She hoped this wasn’t the last time she’d see him. “You’ll need it.”

* * *

It was with some reluctance that Jane met with Hoster Tully in the afternoon. She had many more important things on her mind, like how to find Lyanna and Rhaegar, whether she should try to dig Ned out of his slump, or if there was a way to make sure Rickard didn’t do something stupid. On top of that, she didn’t know exactly how much Rickard had told Hoster. But the man was a Lord Paramount, and she wasn’t to the point of telling the local warlords where to shove it.

Yet.

Like the Great Hall, Lord Tully’s solar was bigger and brighter than Lord Stark’s. It had a few shelves filled with books, scrolls, and various bits and bobs she wasn’t sure about. A large wooden desk covered in parchments was circled by padded chairs. The place smelled mostly of dirt and must. It was a smell she had gotten used to during her time on the planet, but it still wasn’t exactly pleasant.

Lord Hoster sat behind the desk, as she expected. A girl in her late teens with the same hair and eyes sat opposite him. She was pretty, or was probably considered pretty here, and wore a dress of red and blue. The lord gestured her into a seat on the opposite end of the semicircle so that they sat in an almost perfect circle.

“My daughter, Catelyn,” he introduced. She noted the slightly unusual pronunciation. The Common Tongue was shockingly similar to Standard English, but had its quirks.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she greeted, extending her hand. The girl took it, though she seemed confused for a moment. “I’ve heard a lot about you, mostly from Brandon. All good things, of course.”

The girl smiled a practiced smile. “Of course.”

Servants brought in tea and cakes, which she indulged in. The tea tasted like dirt, but the cakes were surprisingly good, sweet and flavourful. It was food for the rich; made of uncommon ingredients, decorated and dished elaborately.

She would try bluntness this time. At the very least it would put Hoster off-balance; most of the men she’d met here weren’t used to assertive women. The shock! The horror! “So, what’s the story Rickard gave you?”

“Not much of one,” Hoster answered with a shrug. “Some lady from a faraway land across the sea he wished to court favour with. Vague, and I’m sure he had his reasons. Ravens can be intercepted, after all. He promised to tell me more in person, perhaps once Catelyn was wed, but I fear that day may never come.”

 _So I want_ you _to tell me_ , went the unspoken implication. “It’s vague, but it is true. I come from the land you call Sothyros. I was shipwrecked off the coast and somehow wandered my way to Winterfell.”

“Sothyros.” He rolled the word along his tongue. “Tell me, is it normal for women to wear a man’s armor where you are from?”

It was annoying how often people dwelled on that. She almost told him how her suit was fitted to her body _specifically_ and how the waste collection system wouldn’t work for anyone with a penis, but bit back that response. Instead, she stated diplomatically, “In the land where I come from, there are all genders in all walks of life. A woman warrior is nothing remarkable.”

“It sounds like a very strange land,” Catelyn opined.

She answered, “It’s all relative. There are a lot of things here I find strange.”

“Anything in particular?” she prodded.

“Tomatoes,” Jane answered. She had this one prepared. “They’re a fruit native to my homeland, kinda round, about the size of an apple. Bright red, smooth skin, kind of a sweet, plant-ish taste. Very important in our cooking, and I’ve never seen a single one here.”

“And what did you think of Lord Stark’s fallen star?” Hoster asked suddenly.

Fuck, did he know about that? Had she less self-control, she would have spat out her drink. Instead, she offered a thin smile. “It was certainly one hell of a sight.”

Hoster raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I had heard that the star fell from the sky just as you arrived.”

She nodded. “It did. Was one hell of a welcome. Freaked some of the locals out, maybe too close to a local legend or something. I never asked.”

“Would you say it was just a coincidence, then?” The way he asked suggested that he doubted it was.

“I don’t have a better explanation.” That was a blatant lie, but she’d learned long ago how to sell a lie with sincerity. “I’m not a big fan of coincidences in general, but I can safely say I had nothing to do with that one.”

“I suppose there is no better explanation,” the lord acquiesced. He was suspicious, and he’d been fishing, but ultimately there was nothing in his worldview that could really link them together. “The gods are strange, I suppose.”

“Do you have any plans to return to your home, Lady Jane?” Catelyn asked.

“Someday,” she answered wistfully. “But I want to see more of Westeros first.”

* * *

Riding with Rhaegar Targaryen was simultaneously everything and nothing like what Lyanna expected. It was exciting and terrifying and hopeful and thrilling all at the same time. She was nervous as all hells- butterflies in her stomach, Jane called it- but at the same time it felt like the adventure of a lifetime.

Though they had exchanged letters, the last time Lyanna had met the Silver Prince it had not been in the best of circumstances. She’d been anxious about meeting him in person, especially given what they were about to do together. Fortunately, her fears had been assuaged immediately. Rhaegar was polite and courteous, but did not treat her as if she was useless or fragile like so many other men had.

On the second day, they joined up with Rhaegar’s friends. Strictly speaking, the two men were Rhaegar’s bodyguards, sworn knights of the Kingsguard, but he seemed to regard them as companions and confidantes rather than servants.

Lyanna wasn’t quite sure about Ser Oswell Whent. He was a brown-haired man with high cheekbones and a square jaw that seemed to not quite fit the image of a knight in shining armor. Lord Whent’s brother, she remembered. He’d said something about their heads ending up on spikes when they first met, and she wasn’t sure if he had been joking or not.

Ser Arthur Dayne had a reputation as both the most chivalrous and the most deadly knight in the Seven Kingdoms. He had pale blonde hair and purple eyes a shade off from Rhaegar’s, but he had the features of a Stony Dornishman. On his back he carried Dawn, the famed greatsword of House Dayne, forged from a meteorite and passed down only to knights of House Dayne deemed worthy to be named Sword of the Morning.

“You carry a blade,” Ser Arthur asked offhand as they rode. Lyanna had expected the knight to disapprove, but his tone carried only curiosity. “Are you skilled with it?”

“Not particularly,” she admitted. “I’ve never had proper training, mostly just practising with sticks in the godswood. Occasionally I’d have a stable boy or one of my brothers as an opponent. I’ve done some with Lady Jane after she showed up, but swords aren’t really her thing.”

The knight offered, “I could help with that, if you would like.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised. A knight, and a legendary one at that, training her? “You wouldn’t mind, you know-”

“Training a girl?” he finished. “I am from Dorne, my lady. Warrior women are rare, but not unknown where I come from. I once gave my sister the same offer, though she did not take it.”

“You, however, _should_ take that offer,” Rhaegar called, bringing his palfrey alongside. “It is not one given lightly. Ser Arthur is the finest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“You’re too kind, my prince,” he replied with a shake of his head. “But I dare not claim that title while Ser Barristan still lives.”

“You _beat_ Ser Barristan, if I recall,” the prince countered, a small smile on his face.

“Aye, once, and I wielded Dawn while he wielded ordinary steel,” Arthur answered. “In truth we are evenly matched, at best.”

“Humble, as always, Ser Arthur,” the prince remarked lightly before pulling ahead.

* * *

Riverrun felt strange to Ned. He had visited before, with Brandon and their father, but it had always been for business, usually to discuss _Brandon’s_ betrothal. Now, there was a tension in the air that had never been there before, and he could not help but wonder if he would end up betrothed to Catelyn Tully.

He didn’t like even thinking those thoughts. Marriage had not been on his mind often. He knew he would be betrothed at some point, and he knew it would likely not be for love, but he was still young, and a second son. He hoped it would be with a fair maiden, of course, but he had been too preoccupied with learning and keeping Robert out of trouble to dwell on it often.

He felt a brief pang of guilt. Lyanna’s betrothal had happened in part due to his friendship with Robert Baratheon. He had thought it a good thing, but it was now causing both their families so much pain and grief.

Above all, though, he feared for the safety of his brother and his father. He knew his brother well, knew that he was likely to charge into the Red Keep and demand Lyanna returned. His father was calmer, but still a wolf inside, and if Brandon had already reached the King there may be little he could do.

Sometimes he dreamed of being Lord of Winterfell, but he never truly coveted the title, not at that cost. He feared the worst, and he feared what it would mean for him.

He knew Lord Tully was more than curious about their situation and about Lady Jane in particular. They only met once after their initial meeting, and only discussed trade between the Riverlands and the North. Instead, it was his daughters or his heir, Edmure, that would try to prise information from him. He brushed them off, answering as little as possible and making more excuses than he felt comfortable with.

Nothing felt right. Lady Jane put words to it. “You’re feeling out of whack, understandably, because everything’s gone to hell in a handbasket.”

Though he had spent much time with the strange woman and thought himself accustomed to her speech, he had no idea what that meant.

* * *

As he had feared, Rickard was too late. Brandon had reached King’s Landing days before him, and if Lord Jon Connington was to believed, was now locked in the dungeons below the Red Keep, having barged into the capital and shouted for Prince Rhaegar to come out and die. As much as he loathed to believe it, it sounded very much like something his son would do. Something he himself might have done in his youth.

He had anticipated that, and done as Lady Jane had asked. He had prepared an apology, complete with concessions he was willing to grant the crown in exchange for Brandon’s return. He’d even practiced calming his wolf’s blood. Fury would not get him what he wanted. For what Brandon had done, he might need to drop to his knees and beg the king to have mercy, any sort of deal for release out of the question. Brandon should have been the next Lord of Winterfell, but the Wall was better than the block.

Rickard had hoped to treat with the Hand of the King rather than the King himself. Lord Owyn Merryweather had never been particularly competent, and had not gotten any better in his old age, but he was amiable and malleable. He believed a deal could be struck with the old lord. It was not to be, however, for he was summoned to the throne room immediately where the King sat the Iron Throne, one twisted thing atop another.

He had met King Aerys few times, and none within the past year. The King did not look a healthy man, in mind or in body. His once-silver hair was brown with filth, his nails inches long and his arms covered in half-healed, weeping scabs. The glint of madness was clear in his eyes.

“Lord Stark!” the King shouted. His voice was wavering, rage and something sinister in it. “Your son threatened to murder my own blood, royal blood! Do you know what the punishment is for plotting the murder of the crown prince? Say it!”

“Death, your grace,” he answered quietly.

“Louder, Lord Stark, so that all may hear!”

“The penalty is death, your grace,” he repeated, louder, for all to hear. So this is how it would be. There would be no negotiation. He sunk to his knees, prostrating himself before the king and hating every moment of it. “I beg of you, your grace, have mercy. My son is still young. He is hot blooded and he is a fool. He knows not what he said, not truly. He is merely an idiot, not a threat.”

“Not a threat? He is a traitor!” Aerys shouted. “You would ask me to set a traitor free? What kind of a fool do you take me for, Lord Stark?”

“I ask no such thing, your grace. I ask for mercy, not forgiveness. What he has done is unforgivable and will shame our house for generations. He must be punished. I ask only that you do not put him to death immediately. Allow him to take the Black-”

“Pathetic!” the King snapped, cutting him off. “I think not, Lord Stark! I think you are a traitor also. You and your sons and Jon Arryn and the Lord Baratheon! There will be no mercy, not for you, not for Brandon, not for any of you!”

He begged, “Your grace-”

“Guards!” the King shouted.

“I demand a trial by combat!” Rickard demanded. He raised his voice and repeated. “I demand a trial by combat! It is my right! You cannot deny it to me!”

“Very well, Lord Stark. You shall have it.” It was a surprise that he granted the request. But the smirk and the glint in the King’s eye worried him.

* * *

The light stung his eyes as the guardsmen dragged Brandon Stark out of the cells and into the throne room. He struggled against his captors, to no avail. They’d given him no food and little water, leaving him weak and helpless. The guardsmen tossed him, still bound, to the floor.

It took a moment for Brandon to understand the sight before him, so strange it was. A man in full plate was suspended from the rafters by thick cording. Below him, men tossed a few pieces of wood on an already large pile- pyromancers, he realized.

“What in the seven hells are you doing?” Brandon demanded, devoid of care for decorum or etiquette.

“Your lord father demanded a trial by battle,” the King told him, sarcasm and insanity dripping from his voice. “I only did as a good king did and granted his request. He shall stand for himself, as the _honorable_ Northman he is. I am a dragon of House Targaryen, and our champion is fire!”

He waved idly toward the pyromancers, and two of them tossed torches into the pile of kindling. It caught quickly with a whoosh. The bright flames were painful to his still-sensitive eyes, and he could feel the heat on his face.

“You sick _fuck_!” he shouted in rage, as loudly as his hoarse throat allowed.

“I am not without mercy, young Stark,” Aerys snapped. The guardsmen picked Brandon up once again and forced him onto some kind of wooden table, binding his wrists, ankles, and neck. A longsword of castle-forged steel was positioned in front of him. What kind of trick was this? “The sword is yours. Retrieve it, cut yourself and your father loose, and you shall both go free. You have my word.”

Emboldened and enraged, Brandon surged forward with all his remaining strength. He grasped for the sword, but his fingers closed around empty air, the sword just out of reach. The bindings around his throat pulled tight, and he gasped for breath.

Again and again he tried, slamming his body forward and stretching his arm out as far as it would go, but each time, he couldn’t quite reach, and each time, the binds around his neck grew tighter. Spots filled his vision, his chest burned and his limbs weakened as he tried and failed to draw air.

But still he battled on. He would grab that sword and put it through the king, if it was the last thing he did!

At some point his father’s stoicism had given was to his agony, and Lord Rickard’s screams echoed through the chamber, rivalled only by the mad king’s laughter. Ugly shadows danced on the walls, cast by the deadly flames. The smell of roasting flesh permeated the air, hints of excrement, burning wood, and hot metal underneath.

The last thing Brandon saw was his father’s armor starting to melt- or maybe it was his failing vision- before he blacked out.

* * *

“Wake up. Wake up, Ned,” Lady Jane hissed, shaking his shoulder. “Get dressed, grab your shit. We’re leaving, now.”

Ned blinked sleepiness from his eyes. He’d been dreaming about… something. It was gone now. It was still night, was it not? Half-awake, he said, “The plan was not to leave for another week yet.”

“Plans have changed,” she answered cryptically, and repeated, “Get dressed.”

He did as he was bidden, retrieving his tunic, breeches, and belt. He’d done this morning ritual enough that he could do it even in his current state. Halfway through, he realized he’d been changing in front of a lady. He paused, cheeks heating.

“Well, don’t stop _now_.”

He quickly completed his task, asking nervously, “Has Lord Tully betrayed us?”

Surely, Lady Jane would not roust him without good reason.

“No, at least not yet,” she answered, donning her helmet – she was already in her battle armour, he realized. “I’ll explain once we’re on the road.”

Ned finished pulling on his boots and strapped on his pack of sundries, then made sure his sword was securely fastened at his hip. “Are we in danger?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not taking any chances,” Lady Jane answered. She crouched next to the door and pushed it open with her left hand, unclipping something from her hip with her right. “Move fast, move quiet, stay behind me.”

Together, they crept through the halls of Riverrun. It was empty in the dead of night, and the guest chambers were off to one side, near a stairwell and the exit. Despite the darkness, Lady Jane navigated surely, never doubling back or pausing in confusion.

They emerged out the side of the keep, near the stables and the west side of the castle. He started to head toward the stables, but his companion held him back, waiting for a moment before suddenly pulling him forward into a dash toward the stables.

She edged along the wall, keeping her body flat, and he did his best to copy her, though he could see little in the dim light of the moon and a few braziers on the walls. She tried the door, the rattle deafeningly loud in the quiet of the night. He thought he heard her swear before there was a whir, a gentle clack, and the door swung open.

The stables were dark and deserted. He made to reach for a torch, but Jane grabbed his arm and handed him some kind of glowing stick instead. It was dim, dimmer than a torch, but its light was steady.

“Two horses, fast ones, pick them and get them saddled,” she instructed quietly. “I don’t know how to do it.”

“Where are you going?” he whispered.

“I’m going to get the gate open,” she answered. “Don’t be seen.”

He turned to answer, but like a ghost, the woman was already gone. He briefly wondered how she planned to open the gate, a heavy thing of thick wood with an iron portcullis, guarded day and night even in time of peace. But his mind was still addled with sleepiness, and he had an important task to focus on. He would have many questions for the woman later. He trusted her enough not to deceive him, but there was still much he wondered.

Ned had saddled horses himself many a time before, though never in the dead of the night and in such urgency. He could hardly see in the poor light, his fingers worked poorly and his mind worked slowly, but set to his task with as much urgency as he could muster. He’d already selected a pair of lithe coursers and finished saddling them by the time Lady Jane returned.

She mounted one of the horses, still awkwardly but with far more skill than she had possessed even a moon ago. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I am happy with this chapter in general, the Lyanna segment is kinda weak. The ninety-ten rule hit me hard: I had this chapter sitting 90% done for over a week with just that part missing. At one point I considered cutting it out entirely, but I really want to play with Lyanna’s perspective and some of the less used characters not just here but in later chapters.
> 
> I was originally going to use potatoes rather than tomatoes (mostly so I could make a nod to The Martian), but Westeros may actually have potatoes. They’re not mentioned in the books as far as I know, but they are mentioned on the show and some other materials.


	8. Gone Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did something a little experimental here. Still not sure if it was a good plan or not. But it was pretty fun to write.
> 
> This is another one that sat at 90% complete for a month or two. It was almost done but the last bit was hard to finish and I got busy with other things. I finished a few projects, tried some new things, and made a game for So Bad It’s Good Jam 2020.

_Two years ago_

Commander Jane Shepard took a deep breath of real, natural, planet-side air as she stepped off the shuttle. She tried not to let the bad memories rise as she surveyed the landscape.

Months on, the devastation that Saren, Sovereign, and the Geth had wreaked on Eden Prime was still plain to see, with the process of rebuilding just beginning. The landing pad she’d arrived on was new- brand new, actually- but the one to its right had been hastily repaired and the two on the other side of the access road were scrap metal. Most of the rubble had been cleared away, but not all of it, and there were only two prefabs next to the landing site- again one new and one repaired.

She had to wait longer than she’d expected for the train- only one track was operating and there were fewer cars then normal. There were a few people in the station who gave her inquisitive looks as she passed, but fortunately none of them were screaming for an autograph or screaming that the geth attack was a hoax. She found a seat and brought up the service record of Richard L. Jenkins on her datapad, though she found herself staring blankly through it rather than reading it. She’d already memorized its contents anyway.

This was the part of the job she hated the most. She didn’t _like_ paperwork, she didn’t _like_ navigating some of the unspoken rules of the Navy, she didn’t _like_ moto bullshit like Fleet Week, but all of those things were minor annoyances compared to walking up to someone and telling them the most important person in their life was never coming home.

She’d gotten better at it, and that in and of itself wasn’t a fact that she liked. She could soothe and console with her words, spin tales of courage and heroism, but in the end it always felt empty. Sometimes people saw right through it or just didn’t care, and they’d yell and scream and even try to hit her. That, she could deal with. It wasn’t so bad. It was the ones that forced smiles and patted her hand and told her it wasn’t her fault that gutted her the most.

She flicked away Jenkins’s file and started searching for ice cream parlors. After she’d gone through the worst hell- in some ways, she dreaded it even more than actual combat- she’d go and get ice cream. It was childish and stupid and weird as hell, but it helped, and the sugary treat wasn’t as bad as the alcohol and drugs she knew some of her fellow officers used to cope.

* * *

_Present day_

The young lord and his escort rode hard, heading east along the river. They would have felt better heading north, but they would need to cross the Green Fork, and the only crossing that way was controlled by a Tully vassal. Near where the three rivers joined, there were a few spots that could likely be forded.

No doubt Lord Tully knew that as well, and that only added to the sense of danger Ned Stark felt. The flight had been sudden and unexpected, and he still didn’t know why they had left. Only that Riverrun was no longer safe, the Riverlands were probably no longer safe, and that they needed to reach the North as soon as possible. Perhaps for fear of learning the answer, for the longest time he did not ask the question burning on his mind.

Finally, when they stopped on the bank of the rushing Red Fork to rest and water their horses, he broke his silence.

“Why did we run?” he asked simply.

“I’ve been reading Hoster’s mail,” Lady Jane admitted with a sigh. “Most of it’s just routine correspondence- fascinating in academic sense, but not of any immediate use. Some of it is actionable intelligence. Almost all of it wasn’t relevant to us.”

“Except for something you saw last night,” he surmised, putting aside the question of how she was able to read Lord Tully’s letters without him realizing.

She nodded. “There was a letter from the king, to all the Lords Paramount. It called- literally- for the heads of Lords Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark.”

Ned gulped.

“I don’t know if Hoster would really do it. It would be violating guest right, which seems pretty sacred to you guys, and it would be asking for a war with the North, who he seemed pretty eager to get in bed with before,” the woman analyzed. She tapped her gloved fingers together. “On the other hand, openly defying the crown isn’t exactly in his best interest, either.”

“You don’t trust Lord Tully.” It was a statement of fact.

“I don’t know him well enough to trust him, but I think he’s pretty smart,” she said carefully. “I’m throwing him a bone and hoping he goes fetch.”

“What?”

“By disappearing, we’re giving him an option and pushing him a bit. He can say, without lying, that we were gone by the time he received the letter. Now, how much effort he puts into going after us will depend on how much he wants to push his luck and who he’d rather push it with. I don’t know enough to judge that, so I want to hit the Neck as soon as possible.”

“Why?” Ned blurted out, still trying to process everything. “Why would Lord Tully become our enemy? Why does the king suddenly want my head?”

* * *

The Jenkins family lived in a mid-sized prefab sitting beside a wide, flat greenhouse. In one way, they’d been relatively lucky: their home had been left unscathed by the attack. It was well off the beaten path, half an hour drive from the nearest train station, so that wasn’t surprising. It had the same industrial look of every prefabricated colony shelter, but there had been a few attempts to make it more homey.

Even after all that had happened, they were still there. She had to respect that. After the attacks, many had fled for the relative safety of Sol and the Inner Colonies. To them, the dream was dead, the experiment had failed. Others refused to let the dream die and stayed to start again. A few brave souls even ventured _to_ Eden Prime, walking the line between courage and hubris.

Shepard stepped out of her rented rover and idly straightened her collar. She hesitated, taking a deep breath before heading for the front door of the prefab. It had a hand-drawn “home sweet home” sign tacked to the front, and an antique doorbell button wired up beside it. She clenched her fist, unclenched it, and pushed the button.

Once upon a time, this was how worried families received the bad news, but these days they almost always were already informed. She was just here to deliver a final “I’m sorry” or a final “fuck you” depending on how you looked at it.

A middle-aged woman deep blue hair that could have been dyed or could have been spliced answered the door. She met her sad eyes and, as per the custom, asked respectfully, “Doctor Jenkins. May I come in?”

* * *

“Your father didn’t beat Brandon to King’s Landing. Or, he did, but he couldn’t talk him down,” Jane answered slowly. “Both of them were executed.”

People reacted to that kind of news in different ways, some unexpected. For better or for worse, Ned took the news exactly the way she thought he would. He just stood there silently, staring ahead, trying to process the fact that his father and brother were dead. Finally, he asked quietly, “How?”

“According to the letter, Brandon brandished a sword and claimed he would cut Prince Rhaegar down where he stood, and your father arrived shortly after and threatened war if Brandon was not released.” She offered a grim smile. “I have no idea if any of that is true or just the ramblings of a paranoid lunatic.”

Ned bit his lip, then briskly shook his head. “I would like to believe them wiser, but I could see Brandon doing such a thing, and my father as well.”

She nodded agreement. “Brandon was many things, and impulsive was one of them. And Rick, for all his faults, would have gone through hell and back to try to get him out. But on the other hand, the King is literally insane.”

“How did they die?” the young lord- still a boy in her mind- asked. There was anger in his voice, though he was trying hard to hold it back. “Did he swing the blade himself, or use a headsman like the coward he is?”

“The King got creative. At least that’s what the letter said, and I’m inclined to believe it,” she answered reluctantly. “It wasn’t pleasant. If you really want to know, I’ll give you a copy of the letter.”

“You do not wish to describe it?”

“No.” It wasn’t just because the whole thing was fucking _disturbed_ , but she didn’t really want to drive Ned into a blind rage while they were still in potentially hostile territory.

“Very well.” He grimaced. “It doesn’t matter. Aerys Targaryen has gone too far. There will be war.”

As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t disagree with that. Technically, the king was within his rights to execute Rick and Brandon for running their mouths, but the unwritten rules of this society said otherwise. But the king was a maniac, and half the kingdom knew it. There would be no negotiations, no concessions from the crown. Marching his armies was the only recourse the young lord had.

* * *

Shepard pondered life, the universe, and everything as she slowly spooned chocolate gelato into her mouth.

The Jenkins family had been the worst kind of family. Well, they’d been the best kind of family- a loving family to each other, and sympathetic to their guest despite everything that had happened. Those were the worst to deal with, and this time had been no different. She had no idea why that was. Maybe she was so used to the shit that she couldn’t handle nice people anymore, maybe it was a survivor’s guilt thing.

She didn’t know, she wasn’t a shrink. She stirred the gelato, staring at the half-spoonful that remained stuck to her spoon. It was a real metal spoon, which was a nice touch.

Kaidan could bend spoons with his mind. According to him, most biotics could do it with practice, but not a lot learned because it was pretty much a party trick for humans and pointless to everybody else. It had impressed Jenkins, who looked up to the Lieutenant with admiration. Those were better days. It seemed a lifetime ago now, before the Geth and the Reapers and Saren. Now they were both dead, among the first casualties in a war half the galaxy didn’t believe in.

She ate the half-spoonful, swirling it around her mouth with her tongue. It wasn’t the best ice cream she’d had, but it was rich, smooth, and tasted real enough. Considering Eden Prime was a devastated frontier world, that wasn’t half-bad.

Doctor Jenkins- a professor in archaeology, she found out- had invited her in. It was a nice home, with a nice little family. She met her wife- Mrs. Jenkins, she quipped- and their other kids, Scid and Ela. Richard had another brother, too, but he wasn’t there, in college on Earth. All of them had been pleasant, and understanding, and told her it wasn’t her fault and Richard wouldn’t want anyone to mourn and thank you for doing what you could. Maybe that was why it got to her so much. A family like that she felt deserved better. If they were a bunch of assholes- justified or not- she didn’t feel that so much.

The gelato was almost gone, with only a spoon or two left. She hadn’t ordered that much to begin with, and the stuff had a habit of disappearing quickly once she started.

It was fragile and they all knew it. Eden Prime was the crown jewel of Earth’s colonies, but none of the frontier worlds were ever really safe. The Skyllian Blitz had proved that almost a decade ago. This time, though, it wasn’t pirates or slavers or raiders. The Reapers would be back, and in force next time. She didn’t know how what the Jenkins family believed about the Reapers, and didn’t ask, but like it or not they were coming.

She licked the spoon clean, then dropped it in the cup and left them both in a plastic buspan by the counter before heading out.

* * *

It was midday when they hit the Neck. They’d made good time, and they’d made it without encountering any Tully men, though they’d been careful to avoid holdfasts and patrols. A different time of day would have been more poetic, but neither Shepard nor Stark were willing to wait to satisfy some hypothetical lit major.

Slowly, they relaxed as they passed into the bog atop the narrow Causeway. They were still a week or more from Winterfell, but this was friendly territory, or as close to it as one could get in Westeros. House Reed had sworn fealty to House Stark long before the arrival of the Targaryens.

Jane waved at a bush as they passed, and it rustled back.

Ned looked at her, perplexed.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve seen my spaceship, and you’re surprised I can spot our friends?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” he replied quietly. He slowed his horse until he was side-by-side with his travelling companion.

She glanced over. The tension and fear of fleeing a hostile environment was gone, and with it came the post-mission shakes. Wondering what could have gone better and what could have gone worse. And in Ned Stark’s case, a new sense of dread.

“I’m Lord Stark now.” It was a simple statement, and not a new one, but it was a heavy one. The bluster from earlier was gone, anger replaced by sadness and uncertainty. “What happens next?”


	9. Blood In The Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know my update schedule is shit and the writing quality is all over the place. I’ve been busy and honestly still in a really weird place IRL. What can I say, it’s 2020. All bets are off.
> 
> Kind of an interlude chapter again, next one will be the one where the shit really hits the fan. I promise we will finally see some battles.
> 
> Also, fair warning, I still can’t write romance for shit, though I’m starting to think that’s more common than I realized. I went in wanting to write Lyanna and Rhaegar’s perspective as well but sometimes I regret not pushing that offscreen.

Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale, frowned as he studied the maps arrayed on his desk.

When he had received the raven, his heart had sunk and his throat had nearly seized with fear. _Treason_. He did not doubt that Brandon had acted rashly, though he thought Lord Rickard had more sense. Ned was not at the Vale, Robert was, but he could never take either of their heads. Especially not over this madness.

And that was what it was, madness. There was no other way to describe it. The moment the Kingdoms had been waiting for in fear and dread had finally arrived. The Mad King had finally proved himself truly, irreconcilably insane, and there was no one left to moderate his actions. Calling for the heads of not one but _two_ Lords Paramount… there would be rebellion. There was no other path.

Even with the words carefully couched, Robert had reacted to the news with a fury unlike any he had seen before. Jon had been able to talk him down before he could hurt himself or anyone else, but only just. Still, the young lord’s anger simmered. His knuckles were white as he gripped the table and anger was written all over his face.

Of course, it was not so simple as marching to King’s Landing and deposing the despot. The King’s actions had fractured the Kingdoms, and not along clean lines. Some of his bannermen were loyal to him. Some of them were loyal to the crown. Some were loyal only to themselves.

“The Vale is divided,” Jon remarked. He circled part of the map. “House Grafton has already risen against us. They have seized Gulltown.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Robert spat, slamming his fist on the table. “I’ll smash that traitor Marq’s head in!”

“Patience, Robert. We are the ones plotting treason against the Crown, while he is remaining loyal,” Lord Arryn pointed out. “But you are right, we must act. We need to make an example of Lord Grafton. The lords must be reminded that they are of the Vale first. And we need Gulltown.” He offered a grim smile. “ _You_ need Gulltown.”

He understood the message. Gulltown was the Vale’s only real port, and he needed to sail for Storm’s End as soon as possible to call his own banners. “I’m still going to enjoy smashing his fucking head in.”

“I’m sure you will,” he remarked acerbically. “Once Gulltown is taken and Lord Grafton handled, we will part ways. Hopefully it will be a lesson to my other banners, though I fear I will have to bring the Vale to order by force. Only then will we be able to march against the Crown.”

Robert huffed, but grunted agreement.

“It will be the same with the Stormlands, Robert,” Jon cautioned. “Many of the houses have close ties to the Targaryens. Some will not want to answer your call. Some will even rise against you.”

“Fuck them too. They’ll follow me, or I’ll _make_ them follow me!” Robert declared brashly. “We’ll deal with that traitor Marq first, then I can sail and knock some sense into the Stormalands. Ned’ll bring his lot south, and we’ll march on the Mad King together.”

* * *

Cersei was nervous, but did not show it. Her lord father hated weakness, even from a woman, and she had been trained to suppress such expression. So she sat in her father’s solar, meeting his gaze as he sat on the other side of the desk, dress perfect and face carefully controlled.

“The North will march with Eddard Stark. For most of the Northern houses, their allegiance to the Starks is ancient and sacred,” Lord Tywin Lannister stated from his position behind his desk, a hint of disdain in his voice. It was a lecture in all but name- there was a point, but the Lannister patriarch would not get to it immediately. “Robert Baratheon will call his banners, of course, and Jon Arryn as well, but not all the houses of the Stormlands and the Vale will march with them. Still, it is only a matter of time before their armies join Lord Stark’s.”

“Dorne will side with the crown, of course. Their history matters little, Elia Martell is married to Rhaegar Targaryen and both her and their children are in the capital. They have no choice.” He motioned toward his charge. “And that leaves?”

“The Riverlands and the Reach,” Cersei recited.

“The Riverlands, the Reach, _and the Iron Islands_ ,” her father corrected.

“The Iron Islands,” Cersei guffawed. “A pile of rocks playing at being a kingdom.”

“Do not be so dismissive. They have one of the most powerful fleets in the known world,” Tywin chided harshly. “Still, I doubt they will be a factor. The Ironborn will use the opportunity to raid and pillage, of course, but Quellon Greyjoy’s loyalty lies with Quellon Greyjoy. They will not take a side until a victor is already clear.

“As for the Riverlands, well, if Brandon Stark had married Catelyn Tully, then the Tullys would have stood with the North. But the fool squandered the opportunity.” He smirked slightly at that. “Hoster may side with the rebels or he may side with the crown. His hand will be forced sooner than later.”

“The Riverlands houses won’t be happy either way,” Cersei pointed out.

Her father nodded. “No. It will be a complicated situation and Hoster is well aware of that. He will have to consolidate his own holdings before he can march on his true opponents, which will give him pause,” Tywin agreed. “That leaves the Reach.”

Cersei snorted. “The Reach.”

“The Reach is the second wealthiest of the Seven Kingdoms.” Tywin’s chastisement was harsher this time. “Altogether, they can field as many men as we can, and the Redwyne fleet rivals that of the Ironborn. They are not to be trifled with.”

She suppressed a laugh. “Mace Tyrell lacks the creativity of thought to rebel.”

“Oh, that is without a doubt. The Queen of Thorns, on the other hand…” Tywin shook his head. “Still, the Tyrells are loyal to the crown. They may hedge their bets, but I do not see them engaging in open rebellion.”

“Understandable, I suppose,” she allowed.

“Yes.” Tywin locked eyes with his daughter, green eyes piercing green. It was not a glare, but it was withering nonetheless. “Which side shall we take?”

It was a trick question and she knew it, but she had no choice but to answer. To answer incorrectly would be a condescending lecture. To not answer would be worse.

On the side of the rebels was the North, the Stormlands, and the Vale. They were not the strongest kingdoms, but each was formidable, and together they would be even more so. However, it would take them time to gather their strength. The Stormlands and the Vale had vassal houses that would rebel, and the geography of the North worked against it.

After a moment’s thought, she decided to count the Riverlands among the rebels. Lord Tully had been trying to improve relations with the North, and his daughter had been betrothed to Brandon Stark. Like the others, it would take time, but they could gather a sizable host.

On the other side was the Crownlands, Dorne, and the Reach. The Crownlands could field fewer soldiers than the other kingdoms, but both Dorne and the Reach were powerful kingdoms. And they could likely field their armies more quickly than the rebels.

“I believe we should side with the crown, father.” Before she had even finished her sentence, she realized she had given the wrong answer.

“Still you have not learned.” He shook his head, disappointed. “We _wait_. Let them beat each other bloody.”

* * *

Shepard felt the difference as soon as she rode through Winterfell’s gates, and she could tell Ned did as well from the look on his face.

The castle felt different to how it was when they left. The inviting warmth and cordial familiarity was gone, replaced with a grim pallor that seemed to be cast over everything. Before, there had been five Starks in Winterfell. Now there two. She would never have described life in Winterfell as vibrant, but there was an energy to it. Now it was suffocated by tension and tragedy.

Benjen was there to greet them as they dismounted in the courtyard. His stature belied his youth but his face was not one of a teenager. It was the face of a man who’d seen some serious shit.

He stopped short of bowing to Ned, but dipped his head deeply. He spoke stiffly, “Winterfell is yours, brother.”

Ned nodded, then pulled his brother into a tight hug. Grief and fatigue was heavy in his voice. “It’s good to see you, Benjen.”

“You as well,” the younger Stark reciprocated emotionally. He asked quietly, “Will there be war?”

“Yes,” Ned answered, sadly but with a note of finality to it. “We should retire to father’s… my solar. There is much to discuss. You as well, Jane.”

* * *

In Lord Stark’s solar they held what could only be described as a war room meeting. Maester Walys joined them, along with the castle’s master-at-arms and a thin man who had served as castellan if she understood it correctly.

They discussed strategy and politics. How long it would take to call the banners and march, how long the Neck could hold out. The Vale and the Stormlands would support them, but how long would it take them to consolidate their armies? Where did the other Kingdoms sit? When they marched, where should they march, which points did they need to hold? And her pointed question- what would happen when they reached King’s Landing?

There were more questions than answers and that was not a good sign.

She chipped in where she could, but goddamn, she felt out of her depth. She supposed they all were, with the people who should have been in charge dead, but she hadn’t even been on this world for a year. Throughout it, Ned in particular struggled, though he did an admirable job of keeping his composure. 

Westeros had the brutality and tribalism of Tuchanka, but on Tuchanka bluntness was king and most problems could be solved with a sufficient application of force. Westeros, on the other hand, had enough political bullshit underscoring everything to make Udina cream himself. It reminded her the most of Omega, but she’d never actually tried to carry out a turf war on Omega. She respected rule number one of the station- don’t fuck with Aria- and that was that.

“You’ve been awfully quiet, Lady Jane,” Ned mentioned offhand after the others had departed and they were the only two left in the room.

She offered a rueful smile. “It’s a lot different from what I’m used to. You guys are practically children.”

“Us?” Ned asked, confused and slightly offended.

“I mean, you’re barely old enough to enlist, but I really meant your world. Things have changed a lot between when Earth looked like this and when I was born,” she cautioned. “The shit we’ve done to each other… look, I can only tell you so much about tactics or strategy in a medieval environment. It’s like ancient history to me. On top of that, I’m still not as familiar with the politics of this world as I’d like.”

“Could you not simply destroy our opponents with your magic?” Ned asked in a half-joking tone, though she was sure he was probing for a real answer.

“Even I can’t take on an army by myself.” She shook her head. “I just want you to temper your expectations. I’m warning you ahead of time that I don’t have all the answers. I know you’re short of people to turn to but I can only help you so much. Basically what I remember or can dig up on our own history, and a few things that never seem to change.”

That got his curiosity. “For example?”

“War is a continuation of politics by other means,” she recited.

“Who said that?”

“Carl von Clausewitz, though that wasn’t _really_ his actual point.” She pulled a datapad from her bag and tossed it toward Ned. “I put together some reading material. It’s got your classic Sun Tzu, Clausewitz, Mattis, and a few more esoteric sources that might be more useful to you. Oh, and Paraxes. Turian general from the Unification War, real sharp and funny as hell.”

Ned examined it and carefully set it aside. “You will need to show me how to use this, but thank you.”

“Like I said, I’ll try to help where I can,” she said with a nod. “If that’s all for now, I’ve got some preparing of my own to do. Call my pessimistic, but I think this is going to be a long campaign.”

“You intend to stand with us?” Ned asked, surprised. “I thought you wished to stay out of our world’s conflicts.”

“Still wish I had.” She shook her head, rueful smile on her face. “But someone’s got to keep you from getting killed.”

* * *

The North was not known for its beauty among the people of Westeros, but it certainly had its moment. Planetos’s star was falling below the horizon, casting an orange-red light across the ancients stones of Winterfell. But it was not the sunset that had Jane Shepard taking an evening walk along the parapets.

“You wanted to see me?” Jane asked, coming up behind Benjen as he sat on the battlements. She was out of her armor, in a jumpsuit with loose jacket. It would probably be the last time in a while, so she’d enjoy it while she could and make some tweaks to her suit at the same time.

The young wolf craned his neck, giving her a nod. Then he took the sheathed sword he had across his lap and handed it to her. “Take a look.”

A carved direwolf adorned the pommel. She unsheathed the blade and inspected it. If she remembered her taxonomy of blades correctly, this would be an arming sword. It wasn’t as long as a longsword, and this particular one was more slender as well. It was immediately obvious who the sword was intended for.

“It was commissioned by my father, in his last letter. He intended to present it upon her return to Winterfell. A sort of apology,” Benjen told her. He added bitterly, “I suppose that will not happen now.”

She shook her head. “I suppose not.”

“What shall I do with it?”

“You’re not going to ask Ned?”

The young wolf shook his head. “He is the Lord of Winterfell, preparing for war. He has enough on his mind.”

She nodded, then sheathed the sword and handed it back. “Keep it here, keep it safe. When Lyanna comes home, we’ll give it to her.”

“When?” There was doubt in the young wolf’s voice.

“When. She’s out there. We’ll bring her back.”

* * *

“Is this it?” Lyanna asked, bringing her horse to a halt with a gentle pull on the reins. She wrinkled her nose. “It’s certainly out of the way, but it kind of looks like a tower of misery.”

The tower was not particularly large. It had clearly once been one tower among many, surrounded by rubble and broken segments of wall. Briefly, she wondered what had happened to the rest of the castle or what it had been called. The tower was decrepit, though a flickering light and wisp of smoke showed that it was at least occupied. There was little else for miles around, the landscape dominated by the red mountains of Dorne reaching into the sky in the distance.

“I think it could be a tower of joy, with a little work,” Rhaegar offered. “It’s old, yes, and not well maintained, but the foundations are solid. And I’m sure a blue winter rose will brighten things up.”

She blushed like a maiden at the remark. The Silver Prince had such a charming smile… What the hell was she thinking? He held out his hand to help her off her horse, but she rolled her eyes and hopped off instead.

The gentleman’s smile turned to a wry smirk. “As you wish.”

His men took their horses, and as they strode together toward the tower she asked offhand, “How is the realm? I haven’t heard much news since we left Harrenhal.”

The prince paused for a moment, a strange look in his eyes that was gone as soon as it had appeared. Finally, he admitted, “It is tense. My father is angry, as is yours-”

“They know about this?” she snapped.

“They _suspect_. I do not believe either of them know the whole truth,” he corrected before offering a reassuring smile. “Do not worry, Lyanna. Both are hot-tempered men, but with time they will calm down. Well, your father will calm down, and Lord Baratheon will calm down. My own father will simply turn his attention to something else.”

“And then?” They’d had this conversation before, but she needed to hear the words again.

“I will be summoned to the capital sooner or later. I will answer that summons,” he said simply. “My father is the King, but the Hand, the Small Council, and a few other actors hold the balance of power. They desire peace above all else. We will offer a Targaryen’s hand to a Baratheon heir to placate the Stormlands, you will return home to Winterfell, and all this will be put behind us.”

The Silver Prince had everything figured out. It wasn’t just in his words, but his eyes, too. He said everything would be fine, and she believed it.

But why did she have such a sinking feeling in her gut?


	10. Love Like Cyanide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a long time, I’ve been busy with other things and have been having pretty bad writer’s block to be honest. This is definitely lacking in polish but it’s been such a stupidly long wait I really wanted to get it released.
> 
> Sometimes I wonder if I should have skipped this part of the story to be honest. There are some parts I really want to do but right now we’re basically following the stations of the canon, poorly. I think I could have structured this fic differently to really focus on the divergent and interesting parts but at this point we’re committed to this path so it’s full steam ahead.
> 
> So… Robert and Jon Arryn centric chapter with some Ned and Jane and some Rhaegar and Lyanna at the end.
> 
> Apologies for any inaccuracies, I’m far from an expert on medieval warfare. Most of what I’ve done here is cribbed from other fics.
> 
> I’m depicting Rhaegar as a troubled man. Probably not entirely free of the madness, though a lot could be chalked up to his upbringing. And he is- to borrow a term from another fandom- doom-driven.
> 
> Also, it’s been five years since Aliens Among Us and I still can’t write romance for shit. So I’ll just leave that there as a warning.

The Vale’s only major port, Gulltown was a beautiful city. The docks stretched along the coast, the Gulltown fleet and a few bold merchantmen tied up alongside. The old walls drew their lines between the inner city and the outer, smoke gently wafting from the mixture of wood, wattle-and-daub, and stone buildings on both sides. Grafton, Corbray, and Shett banners flew proudly in the seabreeze, Arryn banners conspicuous by their absence.

As he surveyed it all, Lord Marq Grafton felt dread more than anything. He had not set events in motion, but he had seized the opportunity- or what he felt was an opportunity. But as the days wore on, he was seized with doubt. Lord Arryn had called his loyal banners. Would Gulltown stand a week from now? Would the young men of his armies return home? Would he be remembered as a man of honour and loyalty, or a traitor and a coward?

“Lord Arryn is our sworn liege,” Gerold seemed to answer. It was if his son could read his mind, but doubtlessly he was having the same thoughts.

“And Aerys Targaryen is our King,” he snapped. It wasn’t about loyalty or honour, not truly, but he didn’t voice those thoughts.

“King Aerys is a madman,” the heir retorted quietly, standing his ground. “Do you truly believe we will be rewarded in the end? Perhaps we will be burned for some perceived slight against the crown instead.”

He was spared from having to answer by the timely arrival of Lord Corbray. The expression on his ruddy face was a serious one, with a tension to it that drew Marq’s full attention.

The other lord bowed briefly before speaking rapidly. “My lord. Our scouts have spotted Lord Arryn’s army to the west, within a day’s march.”

“Their strength?” Marq asked, though he figured he already knew.

Lord Corbray’s answer only intensified the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was nothing unexpected, but somehow hearing it made it all the worse to consider.

“Shall we parley?” It was the timid voice of Lord Corbray’s eldest son, Lyonel, that asked, interrupting his thoughts.

He steeled himself and stood straighter, gripping the hilt of his sword. As the Grafton of Gulltown, he had to keep up appearances if they were to ever have a chance. “No, lad. We fight.”

* * *

It was not Jon Arryn’s first war, but he prayed that it would be his last.

The sights, sounds, seven hells the _smells_ before him brought back unpleasant memories from the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Some relished war, but he was not among them. War broke hearts, broke minds, broke men. Not every man who marched off to battle returned, and those who did return returned changed.

He wondered briefly if the events of that war had led to this one. After only a moment he decided that it probably did, to an extent, but things always led to other things and there was little point dwelling on it.

Damn Lord Grafton to the depths of the hells for bringing it to this. Fighting the Mad King was at least a worthy cause, as worthy as causes get. Even the last war had at least brought a final end to the Blackfyre pretenders. But to oppose his own bannermen?

He spared a brief glance at the man riding beside him, a narrow smirk on his face as he eyed their destination.

Robert, in his youth and arrogance, did not see it that way. He saw only glory. Of course he did- despite all that he had tried to teach the young man many lessons did not stay with him. The war ahead would change his mind, though Jon wished it wouldn’t have to be that way.

It was a cruel world, though, and doubly so for a Lord Paramount. Sooner or later there would be a war and Robert would be embroiled in it. Perhaps it was better that it was now, while he could still stand by the man’s- barely more than a boy in his mind- side.

* * *

Robert Baratheon took a moment to think about the expression on Jon Arryn’s face. It was dread, it was fear, it was unhappiness, it was not a happy expression.

He supposed that in the man’s position he wouldn’t be too happy either.

Lord Grafton was a treasonous cunt, and his friends no better. He’d met the man once, and he seemed pleasant enough, but now that he thought about it the man hadn’t seemed particularly loyal then either.

They were Lord Arryn’s supposed bannermen, and, well, he was pretty pissed off about the houses in the Stormlands he’d been told had already sided with the Targaryen’s. They would see his fury, and he’d made no secret of that, but Jon was more of a quiet man, like Ned.

That must have been it. Lord Arryn was angry- and understandably so- about his disloyal bannermen. And he was just the kind of man that brooded.

But, seven hells, they were almost to Gulltown! Soon he would be able to cave some traitor’s skulls in with his warhammer. One would think that getting closer to being able to put down those fucking bastards would improve Lord Arryn’s mood at least a little, but he seemed to be getting worse and worse as they got closer.

Well, no matter. He’d smash Marq Grafton’s head in himself, then he’d knock some sense into the Stormlands, then they’d march on King’s Landing and he’d finally get his fucking Lyanna back from that piece of shit Silver Prince and his madman of a King.

* * *

Alyn tightly clutched his spear, heart filled with fear. He had a spot under the hide and wood roof protecting their battering ram, and he thanked the Seven for that. He watched as a rock came from seemingly nowhere and crashed down on a man right in front of him, braining him and splattering him with blood.

Death and misery surrounded him. The screams of the dying cut through the air over the clattering of steel and the rhythmic slamming of the ram. The smells of death and destruction permeated everything, and the stench nearly made him sick. All he could see of the battlefield was the gate they were pounding, a small section of wall beside it, and a pile of bodies before him.

In truth he had no idea what they were fighting for or why. He wasn’t a lord or a knight, just a farmer with a rough spear and a rusty coat of mail. He knew he served Lord Arryn, they were trying to breach the walls of Gulltown, one of the lords or all of the lords there had rebelled, and there was something going on with the crown.

“We’re through, men! Through the gate!” If he hadn’t still been terrified out of his wits he might have noticed how curiously high-pitched his commander’s voice was, but instead he numbly trudged forward, through the destroyed gate with his spear held forward.

He managed exactly five steps before something punched him in the chest. He heard a gurgling scream and with horror realized it was his own before the strength left his legs and he collapsed to the ground. More screams joined his as arrows slammed into the spearmen. He could not see where they were coming from, could see little more than the stones of the ground.

Suddenly, some kind of rapid thudding drowned out the screaming. Slowly, he realized it was the hooves of charging horses, and tried to understand what that meant as the stones seemed to dance and shimmer before him. His world exploded in pain as the horses rode over him, and then faded to nothing.

* * *

The Lord of Storm’s End had little consideration for the suffering of the men around him. He’d lost his horse earlier in the battle, gored through the chest by some whoreson with a pike. But he still had his warhammer, and the first thing he’d done after dismounting was smash that fucker’s head in with its pointy end.

Along with a few loyal knights of the Vale, he cut a path through the traitors’ bannermen. Robert laughed with glee as his warhammer connected with a spearman’s chest, crushing it with a sickening crunch and spattering his once-gleaming armor with blood.

“Marq Grafton!” he shouted, kicking the spearman away. “Come out and fight, you fucking craven!”

There was no answer, but he’d already spotted the Grafton banners at the other end of the street, surrounded by knights in full plate. If Lord Grafton was anywhere, that was where he would be. He couldn’t recognize any of them, not in the heat of battle, but those were not mere levies holding there.

Doubtlessly, there were more spearmen and archers around, ready to attack his party from the sides, but he had footsoldiers of his own, and he’d let them handle that. Instead, he roared with the stag’s fury and charged forward, warhammer held high.

The Vale knights clashed with Grafton’s men, but Robert continued charging, his mind singularly set on one target. He batted away one of them with his warhammer as he rushed toward a man wearing armor trimmed in brilliant yellow and flaming red.

“Lord Baratheon,” Marq Grafton said. Robert thought he sounded disappointed, or close enough to it.

“Lord Grafton,” he spat in reply. “Fucking traitor.”

“Am I?” It sounded almost like a question.

Robert didn’t answer. He was here to fight, not to talk. He hefted his warhammer and swung it in a wide arc, which Grafton stepped expertly away from. Good, he’d be disappointed if the traitorous lord didn’t give him an actual fight. The man swung at him, but he turned away and the blow glanced off his pauldron. He swung his warhammer again and was rewarded with a grunt of pain when he landed a hit on Grafton’s armored shin.

His opponent stepped back, a noticeable hobble in his step. He was hurt, but he wasn’t giving up the fight. Grudgingly, he could at least respect that. Robert swung high this time, but Grafton raised his shield and he caved that in instead of his head. It took him a moment to pull his warhammer free, one that Grafton took advantage of, swinging for his chest.

It missed, but he had to twist away from that, and that put him off-balance. Grafton pushed his attack with renewed vigor, forcing him to back away and block swings with the haft of his hammer. Robert had to admit, the lord was better than he was expected. But not better than him.

Grafton brought his sword down again and Robert made to block it with his hammer, but at the last moment turned away and let him swing at thin air. The man tripped, his injured leg doing him no favours, and before he could recover Robert brought his warhammer crashing down into his back.

The Lord Grafton went sprawling to the ground, grunting with pain. His gauntleted hand reached out for his sword on the ground a foot away, and Robert brought his boot down upon it, eliciting another gasp of pain.

The man was a traitor to his liege lord, but he had fought well. “Do you yield, Lord Grafton?”

“No.” The answer came as a quiet gasp he strained to hear over the din of battle, and it sounded almost resigned. “Take my life. But spare my sons…”

Robert nodded, then with a mighty heave brought his warhammer down on his head.

* * *

The taking of Gulltown was a disaster.

All things considered, it had gone well. The battle ended soon after the walls had been breached; all enthusiasm the rebels had drained quickly once Lord Baratheon had defeated Lord Grafton. Casualties among the Vale loyalists had been light.

But Jon Arryn could not help but view the scene before him with sadness. Corpses of men on both sides and smallfolk unlucky enough to be caught between them littered the streets. The gates were smashed, the walls had holes, and fires had burned through several buildings along the south edge of the city. Several ships had been sunk in the harbor. Gulltown was an important part of the Vale and it had been hurt badly.

In turn, the rebels- in truth, he admitted to himself, who were the true rebels?- bent the knee, each apologizing for their lapse in judgement and pledging their fealty to Lord Arryn once again. It would be a long time before they could be fully trusted, but he could not afford to turn them away. The Targaryens and their allies could field formidable armies, and he needed every sword he could get.

So he nodded and offered a few words of pomp and circumstance. First was old Lord Corbray, then acerbic Lord Shett. Finally, Gerold Grafton, son of the previous Lord Grafton, pledged his fealty and it was done. There were still matters to be worked out, but for now he needed to speak with Robert Baratheon before he left for the Stormlands.

“Still not too late to take their heads, Jon,” an unwelcome voice interrupted. “At least send a few to the Wall, maybe take a son or two as a hostage.”

Lord Arryn gritted his teeth and glared at his _very distant_ cousin, Lord Robar Arryn of House Arryn of Gulltown. Like too many of that embarrassing branch of his House, Robar was dirty, crude, and irritating. “As I recall, you did not exactly side with us during the battle either.”

“Our house doesn’t have a lot of an army in Gulltown, only a household guard of a few hundred swords. How much could we do?” Robar argued. “We were all but hostages!”

“Were you hostages? Were your swords taken from you? Were you besieged in your castle?” Jon spat back.

“If we’d had more support, perhaps we could have stood our ground, but we haven’t seen a copper from the Vale in generations!” he responded, failing to answer every single question. “Surely you can’t place any blame upon me, cousin.”

He ground his teeth once again, wincing as he hit his bad tooth. “You will take your men and join with the army when we march south.”

“But, but-”

“If you do well on the field of battle, you will be rewarded appropriately,” Jon Arryn offered. He wasn’t completely unfair. “ _Cousin_.”

Robar gulped, nodded, and scurried away.

Jon Arryn sighed. The Arryns of Gulltown had been an embarrassment for a long time, but perhaps there was a jewel among the rocks. Personally, he doubted it. No matter. It was time to find the Lord Baratheon and impart a few final words of wisdom before he went and got his head taken off.

* * *

The banners were beginning to gather. The North was large, and slow to build momentum, but it was strong. Houses Umber, Karstark, Glover and Mormont had already brought their armies, totalling ten thousand in strength. Soon, they would head south, joining with the Bolton and Manderly hosts among others before traversing the Neck where they would have to either attack or make an alliance with the Riverlands.

Lord Eddard Stark was filled with both pride and trepidation as he surveyed the gathered army. His army.

“I’ll admit I’ve never seen a medieval army before,” Lady Jane told him, sauntering up beside him seemingly out of nowhere. She had one hand resting on the boxy thing on her hip- a weapon, he remembered, though he had no idea how it worked. “Add that one to the overly long and ever-growing list of crazy shit I’ve seen.”

“Care to share that list, Lady Jane?” Ned asked, unable to hide his curiosity.

“I don’t think you’d want to hear most of it. Too many bad entries on it,” she answered, shaking her head before cracking a thin smirk. “Then again, I’ve seen some pretty funny shit too. I once saw a hanar riding a skycar like they were at a fucking rodeo.” She burst out laughing.

Ned couldn’t see the humour, not because it wasn’t funny necessarily but because he had no idea what she was talking about. “What’s a hanar? A skycar? A rodeo?”

Lady Jane’s mirthful smile was replaced by a rueful one. “I guess you wouldn’t know, would you? I hope I’ll be able to show you some day. I really do.”

“Space? Up there?” He jerked a finger upward.

She nodded. “I can’t imagine what it would be like for you. So much of it would seem impossible, the explanations wouldn’t make any sense and the explanations of the explanations only a little more. You’d never see your world the same way again.”

If he were to be honest with himself, the prospect sounded terrifying. “Yet you wish to show me yours?”

“Of course,” she answered without hesitation.

“Forgive me if that sounds unwise. You make it sound as if I could lose my wits.”

“Maybe. There are people who say primitive peoples should be kept in the dark. And you know what, they have good arguments. But they haven’t met you. They don’t think of you as anything but abstractions.” She turned to look him in the eye. “I think it’s harder to look at a friend and tell them they’re not allowed to see your world.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he asked, “You’ll be riding with us?”

“Yup.”

“Into battle?”

“Yup.”

“Can you ride a warhorse in battle?”

“Hopefully. I’m not great, but I’m getting better,” Lady Jane admitted. “If I need to I could probably keep up with you on foot, though I’d _really_ rather not.”

“You can keep up with a horse?” he asked incredulously.

“At a sprint,” she clarified, adding, “I wasn’t baseline two years ago and I sure as hell aren’t now.”

He nodded, though he didn’t know exactly what she was saying. “You haven’t fought in a-” he searched for the word that Lady Jane had used- “medieval battle before.”

“No. And I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. But a promise is a promise.”

“Many will not be happy with your presence. Especially the southern lords,” he reminded her. He knew that as an attempt to dissuade the woman, it would likely have little effect. “They will have questions.”

She shrugged a single shoulder. “Fuck ‘em.”

* * *

Rhaegar watched from the window as Lyanna practiced.

He had been skeptical of the idea of her training. It wasn’t worrying about her becoming a threat, but a general opposition to warrior women in general. Visenya had fought the Conquest from the back of Vhagar. Queen Nymeria probably only led troops and never truly fought in battle. But it wasn’t as if Lyanna would ever truly fight in a battle. It was only to give her the impression that he had her best interests at heart.

Still, it was hard to deny her skill with a blade. She was not Ser Arthur’s equal- probably only Ser Barristan was- but she had talent. If she kept training, she might one day be among the best swordsmen in Westeros. He watched as the two finished their spar, Lyanna heading back toward the tower while Arthur went to relieve Oswell.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her as she stepped back into the tower, best smile on his face. It was true, she was a wild beauty but stunning nonetheless. At the same time, there was no true heart in it, as he was promised to another.

“I’m caked in mud, soaked in sweat, and more than a little banged up,” Lyanna said with a laugh. Gods, that laugh. “Am I still beautiful?”

Another smile. He knew that his looks and his smile could make a maiden melt, and he hated the way he used it. “Still beautiful.”

“I don’t just want to stand around here and wait…” She seemed unsure, but he knew what was coming next. She gulped, then a wicked grin crossed her face, “I want you, _my prince_.”

“Lyanna…”

“Come on, Rhaegar. The way you look at me… I’m not fucking blind. You want me. I want you. Why are we still pretending?” She reached forward, grabbing for him anywhere she could.

He gripped her arms, holding her away. “Lyanna, I can’t. I am a married man-”

She yanked her arms out of his grasp and pushed forward, surprisingly strong for her size. “I don’t give a fuck.”

Rhaegar let up his resistance as the she-wolf’s lips crashed against his and her frenzied hands scrambled against him, moving down toward his waist toward his stiffening member.

He felt no small guilt for it. The deception, the misdirection, the exploitation and the outright lies. It was dishonourable, it was disgusting, and it went against everything he knew to be good. His companions, too, were displeased to say the least, but they were loyal and trusting and they voiced their objections in private or not at all.

It was necessary, he told himself, and almost believed it.

He would get her with child. A child of Ice and Fire, a Visenya for his Aegon and Rhaenys, the third head of the dragon. Then that part of the prophecy would be fulfilled, and he could wash the bitter taste from his mouth.

Yet as they embraced and entwined, the taste was not as bitter as it should have been.


End file.
